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SEE PA&B 34 

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OCTOBER, 1953 VOL. 1, NO. 5 




Captain Morgan Flemish 


Dwlght Oehlerking at told to Jarry Hals* 


George Brandon 



Robert J. Oalway 


Bob McKnlght 

(Complete In this Issue) 


Yong Kak Lee as told to Grant Harden 



Roland A. Martona 



R. B. Armstrong 


Fail Lacoar 







ACTION Is published bi-monthly by Picture Magarinee, Inc., at 21 
West 26th Street, New York City 10, N. V. Application for entry as 
second-class matter pending at the Post Office at New York, N. Y. 
under the act of March 3, 1879. Single copy price 25c; The 
publishers will handle all submitted manuscripts with care, but 
such manuscripts must be accompanied by sufficient return postage 
and are submitted at the author's risk. Printed in the U.S.A.. Copy- 
right 1958 by Picture Magazines, Inc. Vol. 1, No. 5. October, 1953. 

• Publisher 


• Editor 


• Art Director 


• Assistant Edltori 


• Art Assistants 


• Picture Editor 


• Article Editor 


• Fiction Editor 


• Advertising 


• Production 



By Jo* Szokoli 




Troubles TREATED Non-Surgically 

Rectal and Colon disorders are often associ- 
ated with Glandular Inflammation. These dis- 
orders if not corrected will gradually grow 
worse and often require painful and expensive 

We are in a position to take care of these 
troubles either with or without Glandular In- 
flammation treatments. 

The proper treatment of such disorders can 
very easily change your entire outlook on life. 

Who are Troubled with 
Gettinq Up M'fMs 

Pains in Back, Hips, Legs, 
Nervousness- Tiredness, 
Loss of Physical Vigor 


Men as they grow older too often become negligent and take 
for granted unusual aches and pains. They mistakenly think 
that these indications of 111 Health are the USUAL signs of 
older age. 

This negligence can prove Tragic resulting in a condition 
where expensive and painful surgery is the only chance. 

If you, a relative or a friend have the symptoms of 111 Health 
indicated above the trouble may be due to Glandular INFLAM- 

GLANDULAR INFLAMMATION very commonly occurs in 
men of middle age or past and is accompanied by such physical 
changes as Frequent Lapses of Memory, Early Graying of the 
Hair and Excess Increase in weight . , . signs that the Glands 
are not functioning properly. 

Neglect of such conditions or a false conception of inadequate 
treatments cause men to grow old before their time . . . leading 
to premature senility, loss of vigor in life and possibly incurable 


The non-surgical treatments of Glandular Inflammation and 
other diseases of older men afforded at the Excelsior Institute 
have been the result of over 20 years scientific research on the 
part of a group of Doctors who were not satisfied with painful 
surgical treatment methods. 

The War brought many new techniques and many new wonder 
working drugs. These new discoveries were added to the research 
development already accomplished. The result has been a new 
type of treatment that is proving of great benefit to men suffer- 
ing from Glandular Inflammation or Rectal and -Colon trouble. 


will enable you to better enjoy the 

future years of your life could prove 

to be one of the 

best investments 

: ever made. 

you i 


The Excelsior Institute is an institution devoted exclusively, 
to the treatment of diseases of men of advancing years. If 
you were to visit here you would find men of all walks of life. 
Here for one purpose — improving their health, finding new 
zest in life and adding years of happiness to their lives. 

During the past two years* men from over 1,000 cities* and 
towns from all parts of the United States have been success- 
fully treated here at the Excelsior Institute. Undoubtedly one 
or more of these men are from your locality or close by . . . 
we will gladly send you their names for reference. 


On your arrival here we first make a complete examination. 
The Doctors who examine you are experienced specialists. 
You are told frankly what your condition is and the cost of 
the treatments you need. You then decide whether or not 
you will take treatments recommended. 

Definite Reservations Not Necessary 

If your condition is acute and painful you may come here 
at once without reservation. Complete examination will be 
made promptly. 

Select Your Own Hotel Accommodations 

Treatments are so mild that hospitalization is not necessary 
so the saving in your expense is considerable. You are free to 
select any type of hotel accommodation you may desire. 



The Excelsior Institute has 
published a New FREE Book 
that is fully illustrated and 
deals with Diseases peculiar 
to men. Gives excellent fac- 
tual knowledge and could 
prove of utmost importance 
to your future life. 

Write for your FREE copy 
r- -—--—---—— 

[ Excelsior Institute 

I Dept.9153 

I Excelsior Springs, Mo. 

I Onttemrn: Kindly e*nd nw at •«• r«r Ntw FREE ] 
I DlM«M* p*cull*r U mtn. I an 
| Nmm 



7fT» *M. 




NEXT time you go to the fights, watch the boxers as 
they sit in their corners between rounds. Maybe 
you'll notice one who sits with his hands hanging down 
and his head forward. He looks indifferent, unaware. 
If you look closely you may notice that his head is 
trembling very slightly. Every so often it may have a 
jerky movement. You might notice too that a little 
saliva drips from the corners of his mouth. Then watch 
him as he boxes. 

His movements are skilfull but he boxes automatically, 
without initiative. He takes unlimited punishment but 
he is not knocked out. At the end of 
the round he shambles back to his 
corner still indifferent, still lost in 
his private world. 

He is a man who must be led 
about when not in the ring. Others 
must spend his money for him and 
manage his affairs. He is a punch- 
drunk boxer. 

Boxing is a sport which inevit- 
ably exposes its participants to con- 
tinual blows to. the head, each one 
of which, if they land with any 
force at all, cause at least, some 
passing disturbance to the most pre- 
cisely and delicately balanced organ 
cf the human body, the brain. And 
the danger peculiar to boxing, or at 
least to too much boxing, is that 
minor items of damage to the brain, 
trivial in themselves, may slowly 
build up over the years. 

There is seldom anything obvious, nothing which 
suddenly declares itself, little to give any warning. The 
first symptoms of punch-drunkenness may appear as 
much as five years after retirement. There is no cure, 
although if the condition shows itself while the boxer 
is still in the ring, retirement from boxing may bring 
improvement. There is no effective medical treatment. 
Mental deterioration has come, if it does come, for life. 

Punch-drunkenness is a disease of only the profes- 
sional boxer, for the amateur is protected by strict rules 
from receiving excessive punishment. 

What exactly is this disease which undermines the 
intellect and dulls the brain ? No definite answer can be 
given, as the brains of punch-drunk boxers have so far 
not been examined in sufficient numbers after death to 
establish the nature of the damage they have suffered. 
It is thought, however, that the progressive signs and 
symptoms are due to scattered pin-point hemorrhages 
in the basal regions of the brain. 

Most boxers can't 
well as tough, fast 

When you are hit on the side of the head, it is the 
opposite side which suffers the worst shock. It is like 
hitting the side of a bath full of water. The force of 
the blow is transmitted through the water and lands 
up against the other side. It is the basal regions of the 
brain, however, those regions which lie in the center 
of the head at the level of the ear, which is most 
vulnerable. This is because they are more rigidly anchor- 
ed than the outer layer, the cortex, and can "give" less 
to a blow. 
They are also the regions of the brain in which are 
centered some of the most vital func- 
tions of all — sex and emotion, sleep- 
ing and waking, hunger, the primi- 
tive reactions of rage and fear. 

These tiny hemorrhages are caused 
whenever a heavy blow is received 
on the head. They heal over and 
tiny scars are formed. But each scar 
means the loss of a certain number 
of brain cells and when this process 
is carried on over years, the total 
loss mounts up until the final effect 
may be disastrous. Punch-drunken- 
ness, then, is not caused by a single 
savage blow, but by the cumulative 
effect of a large number of blows, 
generally over a considerable period 
of time. 

Time is an important factor. For 
most men there is a certain period 
during which it is fairly safe to box, 
and if a man values his brain he should not exceed 
this. Age has little to do with it. If a man begins early 
he should quit early. 

This, of course, involves practical difficulties for most 
professional boxers. The danger period often comes 
when they are at the peak of their careers and earning 
big money. It is difficult, then, to take the decision to 
retire. It's tempting to think, "Another year, another 
two years. It can't make much difference." But it does. 
The problem is even worse for the less successful 
boxer. Often he simply can't afford to retire. He has 
no training for any other job. He is in greater danger 
than the champion because he cannot space out his 
contests in the same way. He has to fight more often 
for less money and with a shorter period of training. 
His skill declines, his engagements are fewer, and in 
the end he may become a sparring partner. Then he 
undergoes heavy punishment. He receives blow after 
blow to the head as part of his daily routine. He's one 
of the luckiest men alive if (Contimied on page 48) 

tale a jolt as 
Tommy Collins. 

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through that is too damned good to 
leave out and you've got to fit it in, 
it's a time for tearing of hair, swear- 
ing and breaking out midnight oil 
and bottles of bourbon. Such a story 
is / Was Eaten By A Giant Devil- 
fish. It's the sort of adventure that 
happens once in a thousand life- 
times. We can safely guarantee that 
this unique story is one you'll never 
forget. You'll find it on page 16. 

Those who take a dim view of the 
so-called "gooks" who have been 
fighting with us in Korea should read 
Grant Harden's article oiy Doctor 
Yong Kak Lee. Doctor Lee is a 
splendid example of the stubborn 
courage so often found in ROK Ma- 
rines. He has been fighting a double 
war in Korea, spending half of his 
time curing our wounded boys and 
the other half of the time knocking 
off Red Chinese invaders of his 
homeland. In addition to being a 
good medic and a tough scrapper, 
this rugged little Marine has won 
countless American friends because 
of his good natured, cheerful person- 
ality. When one realizes that Doctor 
Lee has seen his country ravaged, his 
family driven out of their home in 
Anyang and buddies killed on every 
side, one sees clearly that the Doc- 
tor's never-say-die spirit is the mark 
of a man with real guts. 

Of tremendous interest to readers 
who are, or will one day be, married 
is the story on Kinsey's work per- 
taining to the attitudes of women 
toward sex. The workings of a wom- 
an's mind and emotions are about the 
hardest things in the world to guess. 
It's like trying to grab a handful of 
smoke. However, this article will 
clarify many of the fair gender's 
feelings and will, we hope, give men 
a better understanding of the whats, 
whys, whens, hows and wheres of 
matrimonial bliss. 

We received a story called / Walk- 
ed The Plank about three weeks ago. 
Not only was it a gripping tale, but 
it was also very out of the ordinary, 

so we scheduled it for this issue. 
Imagine our outrage when a Marine 
Sergeant from Public Information 
wandered into our office and told 
us the story was already done. We 
called him a few names including a 
teller of untruths, and questioned his 
family background. He smiled bland- 
ly and told us to join the Marines if 
we wanted to learn how to speak 
American really fluently. Then he 
produced a copy of Leatherneck and 
showed us a story on pirates of the 
China Sea already in print. It turned 
out that the sergeant was right and 
so were we. While Leatherneck had 
an unusually fine story on pirates, we 
had an original, for ours was a first 
person account of actually walking 
the plank. The sergeant forgave our 
profanity by explaining that all 
men's book editors are frustrated 
buccaneers and cowboys and should 
be forgiven for such outbursts on 
the grounds of slight insanity. We 
were relieved that he did not sic 
the Marine Corps on us, for a hasty 
accounting of armaments in the of- 
fice showed only three dangerous 
cigarette lighters, two pocket knives 
and a flipper in the hind pocket of 
the office boy. We are now learning 
to count to ten before losing our 
temper with ordinary people and to 
one thousand before losing it with 

• The Male Body column in this is- 
sue should be of special interest to 
action-minded men. It discusses the 
little known and yet quite common 
phenomenon, punch drunkenness. It 
seems that while a good, hard belt 

doesn't do you any good, that same 
jarring blow is not necessarily re- 
sponsible for becoming punch drunk. 
The countless lesser punches hitting 
again and again and again are what 
finally leave you jumpy whenever 
you hear a bell. 

Steel construction, always a good 
subject for men, becomes an out- 
standingly good subject when the 
construction is going on a quarter of 
a mile above the sidewalks of New 
York. Thirty steeplejacks hoisted 70 
tons of steel to the top of the Empire 
State Building and riveted a tower 
onto the building to serve as a giant 
television antenna. Therefore, they 
actually made the tallest building in 
the world considerably taller! 

Now that the issue is all set to go 
and we can quit swearing at it, we 
find that the more we thumb through 
the pages, the more we like it. Now 
we'll put it on the stands and see 
how much you agree with us. 

As always, your letters and sug- 
gestions are acting as important 
guides in what we publish. You've 
asked for articles on racing, gam- 
bling, boxing, sailing, war and wom- 
en. That's what Action contains. If. 
there is anything you, personally, 
would like to read about or know . 
about, send us a letter telling us your 
likes and dislikes in articles and 
stories. The correspondence we re- 
ceive is all read carefully. This is 
not because we're nice people. On the 
contrary, it's because we're hard- 
boiled realists who want the mag- 
azine to have more and more popular 
appeal so it'll have more and more 
readers, and make more and more 

It's a vicious cycle. 

Doctor Lee left, plays a hand of Casino with Marine friend. He hopes 
to come to America in the future to continue his study of medicine. 

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For the first time in the history of the world, ignorance and 
fear in marriage is being scientifically replaced by facts. 



Posed by a professional model 

In the past, ignorance and uncertainty have made 
many young wives unhappy, have caused divorces. 


Posed by Professional Models 

Doctor Kinsey hopes that the knowledge contained 
in his book will make marriages more successful. 

'T^HE BOOK THAT is considered by many scientific 
-■- authorities to be the most important single volume 
of the century is due on the stands within a few weeks. 
That book is the Kinsey report on sexual behavior in 
the human female. 

The value of this study in feminine behavior, of 
course, lies basically in the effect it will have on marital 
and pre-marital relationships. In short, while the work 
will include case histories of females of all tyj>es and all 
ages, its fundamental worth lies in what it will mean 
to your wife and to your marriage. Women will be 
able to better understand, from a purely factual view- 
point, what the habits and actions of other women are. 
And marriages will have a chance to become more ma- 
ture and happier through this knowledge. 

It's a paradox that this genuinely world shaking vol- 
ume is being put into its final form at this moment by 
a soft spoken, scholarly gentleman whose chief interests 
in life are music and gardening, a quiet, infinitely pa- 
tient man whose passion for facts and truth once led 

Kinsey, while serious in his work, has a sense of humor. During 
a speech in California his wit brings laughter from these girls. 

him to make an intensive study, which took years, of 
the habits and customs of gall wasps. 

To understand the report and what it will signify, the 
author realized that first he would have to understand 
the man. Therefore, he spent a great deal of time at 
Indiana University, interviewing, probing under the 
surface to discover all he could about the gigantic un- 
dertaking which is Kinsey's work on female sexual 

Doctor Alfred Kinsey is a man who, without saying 
it in so many words, feels he has a mission. A mission 
to help rid the world of the ignorance, stupidity, super- 
stition and fear which surrounds sex. A mission to stop 
the heartbreak, broken marriages and unhappy homes 
which this ignorance of sex causes. With the help of 
his two principal assistants, Doctor Wardell B. Pom- 
eroy and Doctor Gyde E. Martin, Kinsey is complete- 
ly ignoring what some people might consider the good, 
bad or indifferent attitudes toward sex and plunging 
straight to the heart of the matter, the facts. He does 

not concern himself with what a woman should or 
should not do according to generally accepted concepts 
of morality. He is concerned only with what a woman 
does do. And it is becoming plainer and plainer that 
there is a great difference between what the public 
considers a moral standard and what actually happens 
in the sexual behavior of a female. 

Having nothing to do with morality or the lack of it, 
his new book will be a compilation of graphs, charts 
and case histories which will show for the' first time in 
the history of the world a scientific outline of sex 
acts and sex thoughts in the female of the species. 

It is interesting to note that Kinsey does not recog- 
nize the word "frigid" in his work. He prefers the 
phrase "unresponsive" and has established, by the way, 
that only three percent of the female populace is unre- 
sponsive. This will be of particular value to men who 
have felt that their wives are frigid. It will indicate 
strongly that the men are simply not using the proper 
approach toward their sex partners. In this respect, 



Wherever Kinsey is scheduled to speak, record crowds are sure to 
gather. Here, his presence packs the men's gym in Univ. of Calif. 


{Posed by a proiessionat mode!) 


Kinsey's report will give scientific averages, but it's best to 
remember tnat no woman is "average." Each girl is an individual. 

another bubble Kinsey will pop is 
the thoroughly entrenched beliet that 
women are not, normally, as eager 
to make love as men. A woman, in 
many cases, will react as quickly and 
powerfully to sexual stimuli as a 
man. This would definitely bear out 
the "to hell with the buildup" at- 
titude that many men have who are 
successful in their associations with 
women. Too many men, according 
to indications, take too long with 
their buildup. The female emotional 
reaction, mounting at first, later lev- 
els off and then subsides, while the 
man with good but mistaken inten- 
tions is engaged in his long, fancy 

A natural question that comes to 
mind is, how can Kinsey obtain in- 
formation from a woman that her 
husband, preacher or girl friends 
would have serious trouble obtain- 
ing? The answer to this lies in Kin- 
sey 's approach. While in normal life, 
he is relaxed, loves to laugh and take 
it easy, Kinsey as an interviewer is 
all business. One girl who was inter- 
viewed by him has this to say. "You 

Mrs. Alfred Kinsey, a charming, intelligent woman, is 
sure that her husband's work will be of great value. 

Posed by professional models 

Findings show , unresponsive 
females are quite rare. 

know at once that Doctor Kinsey is 
thoroughly trustworthy. His integri- 
ty is obvious and one knows that . 
there is never any need to worry 
that he would ever make public 
what you tell him. Then too, there 
is the air of a purely scientific ap- 
proach and it seems, after awhile, 
like you're talking about someone 
else instead of yourself." 

Kinsey's trained objectivity has 
been thoroughly implanted in his 
fellow workers until they are equal- 
ly skillful as he at asking questions. 
The method employed is to use a 
chart for writing down case his- 
tories. The woman who is being in- 
terviewed can see that the chart is 
being marked in code as she answers 
questions asked her. There is a psy- 

chological advantage in this, for she 
realizes subconsciously that she has 
ceased to be a human being for the 
moment and is nothing more than 
a statistic in an overall scientific in- 

The interview lasts for two to 
three hours and from three to five 
hundred questions are asked. The in- 
terview begins with simple questions 
and works up to a more intimate in- 
terrogation. If an interviewer has 
any suspicion that an untrue answer 
has been given to any question, he 
will work back and criss-cross over 
the question in such a manner that 
the truth will come out. 

No one knows exactly how many 
women have been examined at this 
time, but (Continued on page 49 ) 





First you sail out of Tampico until you locate a monster 
manta birostris. Second you fall overboard while he's 
hungry. Third . . . well, that would spoil the story 


Captain Flemish, an incredibly tough, virile man, undoubtly owes 
his life to endurance and strength gained by spending years at sea. 

_ THE FOLLOWING newspaper 
'clipping was taken from the 

first page of the Mexico City 



Tampico, Mex., March 16: Captain 
Morgan Flemish, who fell over- 
board from the coastal sloop "Mias- 
ma" and was swallowed by a giant 
manta ray, was reported in fair 
condition today by doctors at the 
Hospital Nationale. Captain Flemish 
zvas rescued after being in the fish's 

stomach for more than twelve min- 
utes, when his mate killed the giant 
devil fish with shots from a high 
powered rifle, brought the huge 
monster alongside his craft and 
sliced open the belly to release 

Well, I am Captain Flemish and 
I did recover. But I have lived 
through as ghastly an experience 
as ever overtook any man. An ex- 
perience which I truly believe has 
only happened once before in his- 

tory ... to Jonah. It all happened 
this way. 

I own and sail the commercial 
coastwise sloop, the Miasma. Orig- 
inally I sailed out of Galveston, 
Texas, but a couple of years ago 
I registered my 96-foot vessel under 
the Panamanian flag and began 
working the Gulf of Mexico from 
Texas down along the eastern coast 
of Mexico and as far south as 
Central and South America. I know 
those treacherous waters like I know 
the back of my hand. And I have 

a healthy respect for them. But 
there are other hazards. Dangers 
which are so sinister and horrible 
that until the day I die I shall never 
forget them. 

My story begins on the morning 
of the tenth of March, 1953. I had 
cleared the harbor out of Tampico 
on the flood tide at daybreak. The 
Miasma was headed due east and 
it was my plan to sail about thirty 
miles out and then turn my bow to 
the south. I had a load of frozen 
Mexican shrimp which I was going 



to deliver in Panama City-. At that port I was to pick 
up a cargo of Honduras mahogany destined for the 

It had been a big night, that last one ashore. Bill 
Chalmers, my mate and the only American I had 
aboard, and I had won heavily at poker and we'd 
ended up cruising the town. I don't know whether 
we "changed our luck" but anyway we ended up on 
board the Miasma at four in the morning, an hour 
before flood tide, dead broke and with splitting head- 
aches. We got under way nevertheless, helped to some 
extent by Chip, the Mexican cook and the two brown 
skinned deck boys. It was tough. 

There was a heavy ground swell as we cleared the 
harbour roadstead and I looked aloft to see white 
cumulus clouds forming in the northeast. The Mias- 
ma was ptiching and I checked the barometer. It 
showed that we were in for some rough weather. 

I let Bill take the tiller for a while after we were 
four miles out and I went below for a cup of hot 
coffee. When I returned on deck, I quickly saw that 
the wind had suddenly died and the sea was flat and 
placid.' It was while I stood at the rail, looking at the 
unbroken surface of the water, that I first noticed 
the giant shadow just below the surface. 

I was about to call to Bill and instruct him to start 
the auxiliary power. I knew that it was the typical 
dead calm which so frequently comes just before the 
storm in the tropics. 

Instead, for some reason, I stood there motionless 
and fascinated. 

Bill must nave been watching me because a moment 
later he was at my side. 

"What's the trouble, Cap?" he said. "You about 
to toss your cakes?" He laughed without merriment 
and I knew that his own stomach was none too steady. 

I motioned to the shadow just below the surface 
next to the side of the sloop. 

"What the ..." I began. 

Bill, who was sailing the Gulf of Mexico while I 
was still a pup in prep school, looked down and then 
shook his head. 

"Boy that's a giant," he said. 

"Giant what?" I wanted to know. 

"Giant manta ray," Bill told me. Actually a manta 
birostris if you want the technical name for it. That 
baby is at least 20 or 25 feet wide and about three 
and a half feet thick. 

As he spoke, the huge fish must have brushed beside 
the vessel, for it suddenly flipped its wide circular 
fins in a frenzy of anger and surfaced. I never saw 
anything so evil looking in my life! 

The devilfish! It was certainly adequately named. 
Two small evil eyes glared up at us and its great 
scaley round body was slimy and green. A long vicious 
tail idly switched the water and huge oversize flappers 
at each side beat the surface of the emerald sea to 
a froth. 


"Get the Mangurn out and shoot it," I said to Bill. 

"No," Bill said. "Leave it strictly alone. That thing's 
more dangerous than a truck load of dynamite. Shoot 
it and you'll probably only wound it. And a wounded 
manta will attack. He might not do much damage, but 
that thing weighs several tons and he could very easily 
foul us up. The only way you can kill one of them 
is by hitting a spot exactly between his eyes and about 
a foot above. I don't think either of us is in any con- 
dition for that sort of marksmanship." 

I nodded in agreement. Hell, I had other things to 
worry about anyway. There was a wind brewing and 
I could expect some dirty weather. 

"Okay," I said. "I'm going aloft and drop the main- 
sail. Think we should run under a short jib and auxil- 
iary power until this thing blows itself out. It will 
be hitting any minute now." 

Bill had left the wheel with one of the deck boys 
and he spoke as he went forward. 

"I'll dig out the other boy and the cook to help," 
he said. "You better stay on deck, shape you're in." 

But I had already started up the main mast. I wanted 
to inspect one of the halyards before dropping the 
sheet. The last I saw of Bill he was ducking down 
the forward hatch. 

I must have been half way up when it happened. 

That wind, which I'd been expecting any second, 
suddenly hit. It caught me unprepared. I was just 
reaching for a line, when the Miasma heeled over 
as though some giant hand had lifted it up from under- 
neath. It was the first warning blast of the hurricane 
soon to come. 

I missed the line and at the same time my foot slipped. 

That sudden shock of wind did two things : it almost 
killed me and it saved my life for the moment. The 
ship heeled so far over that as I fell, instead of crash- 
ing to a bloody pulp on deck, I went into the water 
at the side of the vessel, some six feet out. Even as 
I fell I knew what was happening. 

Just the touch of that tepid, soothing water was 
enough to bring me completely too. The first thought 
which struck me was that I was lucky. I hadn't hit 
the deck. The second thought brought instant panic. 

No one had seen me fall and we were mi'.es out 
from shore. I could never swim it back, especially 
I couldn't swim through those shark and barracuda 
infested waters. 

And then I remembered the giant devilfish! 

I guess I screamed. Later, when it was all over, 
Bill told me it was the sound of that high, piercing, 
ear-shattering yell of mine which first let him know 
something was wrong. 

The side of the vessel was 20 feet away and drifting 
as I suddenly turned in the water and lunged out. 
Even as I started for her, I knew in my heart I'd 
never make it. The first flashing puff of wind had 
started a series of small gusts and the Miasma was 
{Continued on bage 54 ) 



Even when the landing strip was right under our noses it was almost 
impossible to see the lights burning at its edge through the tog. 


Five minutes past my point of no return, the message came: 
"Narsarssuafc airways, Greenland, calling Nan 4261 Charley 
. . . return to Iceland ... do you read this? . . . weather 
makes landing impossible ... do you read this? . . ." 


*MY GAS GAUGE said there was no chance to turn 
w back. The warning had cracked over the radio in 
my small twin-engine DeHaviland Dove five minutes 
too late. Below, the North Atlantic was cloudy and 
wHite-capped swells broke over bluish icebergs. I shud- 
dered. Only God knows how many men those waters 
have conquered. The Air Force says a man will freeze 
to death in less than five minutes in its icy waters. 
And according to my navigator, Howard Brown, we 
would be five minutes short of safety at minimum if we 
returned to Iceland. 

I grabbed my handmike : "Nan 4261 Charlie to Nar- 
sarssuak Airways . . . impossible to turn back ... I'm 
past my point of no return . . . please instruct." 

"Narsarssuak Airways to Nan 4261 Charlie . . . come 
ahead . . . we'll do what we can for you . . . call us at 
10 minute intervals until you're over the field." 

I called Greenland again, "Just how soupy is the stuff 
at the field?" 

"Here's your recipe, mister," the Greenland radioman 
called. "Ceiling 100 feet, visibility a quarter of a mile 

and it's raining. Buster, we're just plain socked in." 

Two hours later we were to make aviation history at 
the little Air Force base at Narsarssuak. 

The landing field there is small for an Air Force Base, 
used mostly just for refueling. It lies at the foot of 
rock mountains and ice at the end of a winding 57-mile 
long fjord on the southwest tip of Greenland. You get 
to it by zigzagging up the fjord through a canyon of 
jutting rocky cliffs. It's healthier to fly into Narsarssuak 
on a clear day. Otherwise, you might clobber into the 
icecap that rises directly behind the field. It has hap- 
pened. It's happened too damned often. 

I have made upward of 80 trips across the North 
Atlantic, ferrying aircraft from Europe to Canada and 
the United States. I have a slogan: I'll ferry any plane 
anywhere in the world if the customer has the cash. 

I'd never had a real scare flying the Atlantic until 
May 3, 1953. That's the day I'm talking about — when 
I was five minutes past my point of no return. 

The Dove being piloted wasn't exactly the plane for 
a North Atlantic crossing in the first place. It is an 



The DeHavlldnd Dove piloted by Captain Oehlerlcing is a twin engined, 
dependable aircraft. Unfortunately, no plane flies well without fuel. 


executive ship built in England. Carries six passengers. Don't get mc 
wrong; it's a very good plane and it's selling like television in the United 
States. But it's just healthier to go the North Atlantic route with four 
engines instead of two. The way 1 go you have to island hop unless you're 
set up with extra fuel tanks. First from Scotland to Iceland, then Green- 
land to the mainland of Labrador and on to Montreal or New York. 
And on this particular trip I was wishing to hell I had four engines. 

I could see Greenland outlined ahead by a deep blue skv. Sure, it was 
clear up high near the 11.000 foot summits. The ice looked like a big, 
soft white cloud. But down low it was soup. And that's where I had to 
land. Greenland had forecast ceiling unlimited before we left Iceland a 
few hours before. But the Atlantic is capricious as a woman. You can 
leave one point with an all-clear forecast for your next stop. And before 
you get there it may be like a cloudy midnight. 

Brown, my navigator, scribbled on a piece of paper as I finished talking 
with Greenland. 

"We've got about three hours fuel left," he said. "What do you think 
our chances will he at Narsarssuak ?" 

"We'll be over the fjord in another 45 minutes," I said. "That'll leave 
us little better than two hours fuel. We can circle for a while. Maybe the 
fjord will clear." 

We were circling the field, though we couldn't see it. when the Green- 
land radioman called again. "Air Force operations here advises that you 
fly to Sondre Strom Fjord. The weather is okay there." 

Sondre Strom Fjord is the site of another Air Force base about 527 

miles northwest of Narsarssuak. It is used by the Air 
Force as a stop-over for planes headed for Thule, the 
military's northernmost outpost. 

Brownie checked our gas supply and asked for a 
report on winds aloft. Narsarssuak said we would be 
bucking 60 mph headwinds all the way to Sondre Strom. 
Brownie completed a flight plan. Then ripped it up. 

"Damn it, we can't do it, we can't do it," he cursed. 
"We'd be 20 minutes short of gas. Headwinds are too 

According to my calculations we would be about 50 
miles from Sondre Strom if we went down 20 minutes 
short. It would take a good 30 days to hike that dis- 
tance across the icecap. And we didn't even have a can 
of beans or a parka. No Arctic survival equipment. Not 
even a snowshoe. 

I called the Narsarssuak radioman. "We can't go to 
Sondre Strom . . . not enough gas." 

There was a pause and then, "Narsarssuak to Nan 
4261 Charlie ... we are alerting air-sea rescue . . . 
officer in charge here advises you attempt a landing on 
the icecap behind us . . . there's a shack with provisions 
up there about 12 miles northeast of us . . . we'll send 
up a ground rescue team with dogs and sleds to bring 
you down . . . I'll give you the position of the shack . . ." 

"No thanks, mister," I called back, "I've got to deliver 
this plane. We'd never get it off the cap. Besides, we'd 
probably clobber trying to land." 

There was a long silence and then a new voice came 
over the radio. It was the operations officer: 

"You're not going to be able to save the plane!" he 
shouted angrily. "You're going to be lucky to save your 
lives. H you don't want to try the icecap landing then 
ditch in the ocean. I'll give you a position just off the 

Captain Oehlerlcing, a former Air Force pilot, made 
history when he jockeyed his craft toward the strip. 

coast. Ditch and we'll have a boat waiting to pick 
you up." 

"Try to think of something else," I radioed. "We 
wouldn't have the chance of a polar bear in the desert 
if you didn't get to us on time." I reminded him of 
the estimated five minutes survival in the drink. 

The operations officer was sizzling. 

"Here's our last prayer for you," he growled. "We're 
sending up a B-17 air-sea rescue equipped with radar 
to guide you down. Give us your position." 

1 GUESS the prettiest sight I can ever remember was 
that big. lumbering B-17 breaking through the over- 
cast and swinging alongside us. Up until now, Brownie 
and I hadn't talked much. Now, Brownie gave me kind 
of a hopeful slap on the shoulder, like football players 
do when they're going into a game to win. But we 
hadn't won yet. We had the longest 30 minutes of our 
lives ahead. 

The B-17 swung alongside our starboard. 

"You're in kind of a tough spot, mister," the skipper 

"I'm beginning to get that idea myself," I laughed. It 
was just one of those screwy laughs that come out some- 
times when you're plenty scared. 

The B-17 pilot was Captain (Continued on page 50) 

The sloping, narrow strip is approached from up- 
per right. A rough landing, even on clear days. 


how to make ORANGE JUICE 

First you set up an orange on a block. Then, in 
true cowboy style, you draw from the hip and fire. 

A perfect bullseye is needed for the best orange 
juice. Bullet is now on its way out the far end. 

If your wife is quick, right about here is where 
she II take a deep breath to start a loud scream. 

Internal pressure causes eruptions on face of the 
citrus fruit. It's almost time to gex your glass. 




Two hundred millionths of a second after you've 
pulled the trigger, the orange will be like this. 

At this point your spouse has murder in her eyes and at least one wall 
is about to be depiastered. But you never got orange juice so quick! 

Quick and simple, this system is highly 
recommended for bachelors. It will, how- 
ever, lead to bickering if the little wife 
is breakfasting quietly across the table 

^ USING A high speed photographic technique which 
* enables ballistic experts to study the performance of 
bullets, Western Cartridge Company made this series 
of photos at three millionths of a second with an Edger- 
ton Flash Lamp. They show what happens to. an orange 
when struck by a .22 long rifle hollow point bullet 
traveling at 1,150 feet per second. Camera used was a 
Speed Graphic. Rifle was a heavy barrel Model 52 Win- 
chester. Actually, the method of making orange juice is 
hot practical, but it's the fastest known way of get- 
ting the most juice with the least possible effort. 


The odds were incredible at the battle of Changjin Reservoir. Three 
regiments of screaming Chinese attacked a single battalion that night. 

the GOOK from ANYANG 

-MY STORY BEGINS with the First Battalion, 
*32nd Infantry of the Army's 7th Division moving 
into Anyang. To the top brass, Anyang was strategically 
unimportant, just another "gook" dump in the march 
back to Seoul. To the men of the First, Anyang meant 
possible death, for coming into town they were met by 
a long file of Korean refugees moving south. 

Tired as the GIs were, they were taut and ready for 
the worst. Mass enemy infiltration was the order of 
the day. With an alertness born of bloody experience 
they watched the gooks move towards them, eyes star- 
ing blankly down at the ground, legs moving up and 
down in stiff, automatic fashion, looking as always the 
burden bearers of Asia. 


One false move and the GIs would have killed. A 
few hours before, hundreds of North Koreans in civilian 
clothes had descended without warning on a unit of 
the First, nearly overrunning their position. 

It is strange to see the animosity that exists between 
the protected and the protector, but this is a strange 
war. Neither group can speak the other's language and 
there is doubt and fear, and even hate. 

For a moment the soldiers and the refugees stand 
still in the road facing each other. The moment is 
broken, and the danger passes when a GI non-com steps 
over to an aged Korean who seems to be the leader. 

The non-com is not rough, but gently turns him side- 
ways and points to a road that leads away from the in- 


as told to GRANT HARDEN 

They called him "900k" 

but this fighting doctor 

was saving our wounded 

boys twenty hours a day. 

The other four hours he 

was out killing Reds . . . 

Doctor Yong Kale Lea was one of a handfull of survivors. The men 
fighting Ai his side reported his magnificent courage and coolness. 

Tending wounded ROKs and GIs alike, Doctor Lee worked and 
fought around the clock. This soldier, above, lived due to fine care. 

the GOOK from ANYANG 

coming soldiers. The old man leads the refugees, old 
men, young men, old women, young women and chil- 
dren, down a road that leads to nowhere. 

It was this day and in this town that I joined the 
First . Battalion, 32nd Infantry, 7th Division of the 
United States Army. 

When the North Koreans invaded Seoul, I was teach- 
ing microbiology at the Eaha Women's University. I 
was conscripted by the Communists and put on a train 
to Pyongyang. Half way to Munsan-ni the train was 
spotted by UN planes and I escaped during the con- 
fusion. Recaptured, I was sent to tend North Korean 
wounded at a huge electric transformer plant in Shin- 
chon. A few days there and UN planes came to my 
rescue again. This time I was able to make it to my 
father's place in Anyang where I hid in an underground 
trench until the Americans arrived. 

I was more fortunate than my countrymen, traveling 
the road to nowhere. I could speak English as well 
as Korean and when I stepped out of my father's 
house I raised my hands and spoke, "I am a friend. 
I want to help:" 

A GI took me to a captain in a jeep. 

"Excuse me, sir," he said to the captain. "We've 
a gook who wants to join up." 

"Can you use him?" asked the captain, in a voice 
that seemed racked with fatigue. 

"He speaks English," replied the soldier, and more to 
himself than to the captain he said, "We can use him." 

I was now a member of the United States Army, and 
from then on, I was "the gook from Anyang," a GI 
way of identifying the various Koreans that joined 
them. But I was not ashamed or humiliated by it, for 
I understood. 

Later that day, the First moved into Seoul. Casualties 
were heavier than expected, giving our medics a difficult 
time. I informed a sergeant that I would like to help 
them, if I could, explaining that I had been a doctor, 
and perhaps could be useful. He took me to the Bat- 
talion's surgeon, a Captain V. J. Navarre, who seemed 
quite pleased to have me. 

In 'November Seoul was secured and our Division 
received orders to go around the peninsula to Iwon, a 
small coastal town north of Hamhung. Morale among 
the GIs was good, as it looked as if they would soon 
be home. 

At Iwon a special task force, composed of the First 
Battalion. 32nd Infantry; 3rd Battalion, 31st Infantry, 
and a battalion of the 57th Field Artillery, was organ- 
ized to spearhead a point on the Pujon Plateau, 14 
miles north of Hagaru-ri. 

The day we left Iwon a soft wind was blowing. The 
next day we were 2500 feet above sea level. It was easy 
going in comparison with things to come. 

Slight guerrila resistance was met and surpressed. 
Rugged terrain, combined with severe wind and bitter 
coldness contributed their share of misery. Snow had 
hidden the mountains and valleys under a camouflage 
of white. 

We bivouacked on the north tip of Changjin Reservoir 
the afternoon of the twenty-seventh of November. The 
remainder of the task force was about four miles be- 
hind. By nightfall we had the Battalion aid station set 
up and we prepared for a night of rest. I crawled 
into my sleeping bag and fell asleep. 

"Wake up! Doctor Lee! Wake up!" It was Chisai, 
a ROK medic. I awoke to hear the firing of machine 
guns. I asked Chisai if the North Koreans were at- 

Luckily, Lee spoke English before the Korean hos- 
tilities. Now he speaks excellent slang as well. 

The Doctor performs an operation on an American, 
one of more than 2,000 he has helped stay alive. 


Since joining the Marine Easy Medical Company, Lee has learned to 
play a uke. He sings loud and fights hard in good Marine tradition. 

Lee casts a mean horseshoe before the eyes of Navy 
Lieutenant, Richard A. Lavine from Pittsburg, Pa. 

tacking. He was excited and somewhat inchoherent and 
I thought he said something about it being Chinese. 

"Where did they come from?" I asked, as I began 
to dress. 

"I do not know." 

I hurried down to the battalion aid station, where I 
found Doctor Navarre and the other medics caring for 
the wounded. Fighting outside was rapidly growing 

Thousands of words have been written about this 
night and the days and nights that followed, but they 
remain only a modest tribute to the men who were there. 
The suicidal fury of the Chinese attacks were astound- 
ing. It was an eruption of hell, with a lava of human 
hate pouring relentlessly over the United Nations troops, 
for there were ROK Army personnel fighting along 
with the GIs. 

A lieutenant was seriously wounded and Doctor Na- 
varre and I went to him. He was hopeless and a Catholic 
priest took over. This became routine as the night 

The night passed slowly. About 0300 we had filled 
the aid tent and began putting '( Continued on page 58 ) 




The crap-game boys get a perverse thrill out of 
seeing their money go rolling away with the dice. 


_ THE FIRM'S president called his office 
"manager into the inner sanctum. He 
coughed nervously and looked up at the 
young man who stood in front of him. 
"Jim," the company president said, "I'm 
sorry, but we'll have to let you go. You can 
pick up a month's salary in lieu of notice 
from the cashier as you go out tonight." 

Strangely enough, Jim didn't seem sur- 
prised that he'd just lost a good paying 
position. But he did plead for another chance. 

The president shook his head. "You've 
already had three chances, Jim," he said. 
"I'm sorry. But it seems gambling fever has 
got you. We can't have people dunning you 
here at the office for payment of debts. It 
happens every day and it's bad for our 

When Jim received his month's pay that 
evening, he went to a poker game instead of 
going home to his wife. He told himself he 
felt lucky and would run his pny-off money 
into the thousands. He lost every dollar at 
the game. 

Jim's wife told him that she was through. 
That it was an old story to her and when he 

In any big gambling hall, you'll find a high percentage of people 
who, though they wouldn't believe it, are there to lose their cash. 

Get set for a jolt. Psychiatry now tells us chronic gamblers are as mentally ill 
as alcoholics. They're never emotionally satisfied until they've lost their pants . . . 

got another job he would lose it also because of his 
gambling, as he had other past jobs. When Jim pleaded 
with his wife not to leave him she threw at him what 
was to her tops in insults. "You don't want a wife," 
she said bitterly. "Y'ou want a psychiatrist." 

Although Jim's wife didn't realize it when she said 
he needed a psychiatrist, she was unwittingly giving him 
the one means of possibly saving his marriage and 
eventually ending on Skid Row. 

Psychiatry now knows that Jim, and many people 
like him who gamble habitually, are sick people. Jim 
was a good physical speciman of manhood but he was 
emotionally ill without knowing it. He liked to consider 
himself a sport and told himself that gambling was 
just part of his makeup. But the truth of the matter is 
gambing was an abnormal part of Jim's makeup and 
the cause of it could have been found by a recognized 

Jim first became a gambler a year after he was 
married and although he claimed he loved his wife 
dearly, his gambling was actually a subconscious desire 
to hurt her. When after a year of married life Jim and 
his wife visited a specialist because the baby they both 

wanted hadn't arrived, they were given a thorough check 
up. The examination showed that Jim's wife was fertile, 
but he was sterile. 

This medical fact was a terrific blow to Jim's ego and 
he subconsciously blamed his wife for the fact he could 
not father a child. The result was gambling fever, a 
way of subsconsciously taking satisfaction from his wife 
for his damaged pride. As a matter of fact, the more 
Jim lost at gambling the more pervertedly elated he felt. 

A psychiatrist could have shown Jim the reason for 
his chronic gambling by means of psychoanalysis, the 
art of probing the subconscious mind and bringing forth 
long forgotten, or not realized facts. And once Jim 
realized the reason for his habitual gambling he would 
have been on the road to emotional recovery. 

Like alcoholics, gamblers can be found in all types 
of society. They are people who have never got out 
of grade school, and they can be found among university 
professors. Gamblers come from slum homes, and in- 
clude people who have money to burn. They include the 
young and the old, and medical statistics show that the 
problem of the chronic gambler is growing rather than 
shrinking. (Continued on page 52) 


Atop the tallest building in the world, steeple- 
jacks do some fancy electrical work on the spire* 

From the highest point, it's an awesome sight. An 
automobile on Fifth Avenue looks the size of a flea. 

These boys lugged 70 tons of steel to the top of the Empire State Building and hammer- 
ed it on up there. It was a cinch. If they slipped, they only had 1500 feet to fall 

An eery geometric design, the television antenna 
stretches high above precariously perched worker. 

To protect man-made Matterhorn from wind and 
rain, a coat of heavy, rapid drying paint goes on. 

Girders were attached to under- 
side of elevators and lifted upstairs. 

70 Tons of Steel in the Sky 

~TO BRING THE babe! of 
™ voices and sights that is TV to 
more than 15,000,000 Americans in 
the New England and New Jersey 
areas a huge, needle-like antenna has 
been raised by modern man on top of 
the tallest building in the world. 

Like bringing coals to Newcastle, 
this titanic needle makes the Empire 
State Building 222 feet taller, bring- 
ing it to a total of 1,472 feet above 
the teeming streets below. 

It required six months of con- 
stant toil by a crew of 30 steeple- 
jacks from the United States Steel's 
American Bridge Corporation to 
complete the task. Five Telecasting 
companies in New York contributed 
to the building and all five will make 
use of the simultaneous broadcasting 
facilities of the tower. Those com- 
panies are Columbia Broadcasting 
System, National Broadcasting 
Company, Allen B. DuMont Labo- 
ratories, Incorporated, American 
Broadcasting Company and WPIX, 
Incorporated. Each outfit uses one 
of the five separate TV transmit- 
ters on towers. 

One of 30 steeplejacks working on the mammoth undertaking takes 
time out for a leisurely lunch far above the noise of busy streets. 


70 TONS of STEEL in the SKY 

The more than 70 tons of structural steel employed in building the 
tower were whisked up to the top of the building by a clever plan. Girders 
were lashed onto the bottoms of elevators. All the work went on without 
disturbing any of the occupants of the building although there are more 
than 25,000 persons working within that stone and steel shaft. 

TELEVISION transmission, which was pioneered from the Empire 
State in 1931 by NBC, attains a ghost-free, shadow-free excellence 
with the new signal. "Ghosts," caused when lagging images are reflected to 
receiving sets from an obstructing surface, are largely eliminated because 
of the height of the Empire State Building. The big new tower brings one 
of every ten Americans within range of the nation's televising capital. 
The total audience now reached is over 15,000,000 persons. 

Toasting rivets a quarter of a mile above New York's sidewalks 
was not an easy job with the wintry gales constantly howling. 

Each step up was a scientific move 
that required experience and guts. 

Five television companies maintain 
individual antennas on the tower. 

Viewed from the inside, one gets 
an idea of complexity of spire. 

After the last rivet is in place, the Stars and Stripes wave from 
the pinnacle of the highest man-made structure in earth's history. 



When renegade pirates captured me in the China Sea, I wondered why 
they laughed and joked instead of cutting my throat. Then I found out. 
They'd read somewhere about a guy named Captain Kidd . . . 

_ AT LEAST ONCE a week, I wake up from the 
• same nightmare, my heart pounding furiously. I walk 
to my bedroom window and look out to the street. Then 
I know that my nightmare is no longer real. Only then 
am I certain that I'm safe. 

The nightmare? Sure I can talk about it now, though 
anyone reading this will probably laugh. I might have 
laughed myself, a year ago. 

It's always the same. I'm on a ship, an old Chinese 
junk, only I'm hot a passenger. My hands are tied 
behind me. My shirt is torn, my back is a mass of 
welts, the kind that are raised by a wicked, skin-lifting 
rawhide whip with lead pellets slipped into its leather 
strands. I'm shoved up on a plank. Then, hopelessly, 
I start walking, a slow step at a time, to the end of the 
plank. Just as I go off into space I wake up, sweating 
and shivering. 

That dream is based on an actual experience. 

Last year Jack Crawford and I were spending a 
couple weeks in Hong Kong. 

After four years of business in the Philippines we 
came up to that city to see if there might be something 
interesting and profitable. 

We had a Chinese friend in Hong Kong. One night 
while visiting with him he mentioned that an old friend 
of his wanted to escape from China. 

How could he manage, we both inquired, since the 
communists are not indulgent in granting visas, either 
into 01 out of China. It seemed that this man wanted 

to be smuggled out by friends who owned a small power 
boat. The job would not be done merely for friendship's 
sake. A large hunk of money would change hands. 

Here was the sort of job Jack and I had been looking 
for, with the satisfaction of fooling the communists 
thrown in. We'd saved nearly ten thousand bucks in 
the Philippines and had purchased a speedy little British 
sub-chaser. Where it came from or how it got into the 
possession of the Chinese merchant we bought it from, 
we didn't question. We might not have wanted to buy 
it if we'd gone through a title search. 

We wanted a boat with zip and we got it. One test 
spin behind those twin Rolls-Royce engines and we were 

"I think we could fly it if we put wings on," said 
Jack, well pleased with the 50 mph performance. 

Now the craft, plus our Yankee luck, seemed destined 
to make us some easy money. 

Wan, our Chinese friend, showed us on a map where 
we were to pick up our customer and where we could 

We never could have even tried locating Lang Gua, 
the town in Red China, if we hadn't lined up a young 
Chinese sailor who had fished throughout our assigned 
area in pre-commie days. His name was Ging. He was 
thoroughly trustworthy. 

The general idea was for the emigrating citizen to get 
himself on a fishing junk a mile or two off shore on a 
dark night, wait until a certain hour, then flash the 

By George Brandon 

Ging told me the junk pulling up might be e pirate ship. I ignored him. 
After all, the skull and bones went out of style yean ago — I thought. 




code signal. We would whisk up, take the man aboard 
and cruise back to Hong Kong. 

It turned out to be such a -soft job we decided to keep 
it up. 

The first two assignments were easy. We had made 
about ten thousand dollars after expenses and bribes 
had been paid off. 

It was on the third trip that we ran into bad luck. 
We had picked up our customer, or rather our two 
customers, a Chinese business man and his lovely six- 
teen-year-old daughter, and we had started for Hong 

Both the older man and his daughter looked relieved 
at finally getting aboard. They spoke with Ging, our 
navigator, and told him that the sons of the family had 
been deported to Korea by the communists. They had 
escaped, the only surviving members of what had once 
been a happy family of six children, mother and father. 

sputtered and quickly died out. Jack opened the hatch 
cover and flashed his light over the engine hoping that 
something simple had gone wrong. After a few minutes 
of tinkering, he came over to me. 

"I'm worried," he said. "Nothing I can do has any 
effect on the engine. Looks like something deep inside. 
Now the other engine will have to take the strain." 

I eased up on the throttle, hoping to be as easy on 
the good engine as possible. We cruised along for an- 
other half hour. Two hours to go, I thought. Two hours 
could make the difference between Hong Kong and a 
dozen other ports — all held by the communists. 

Our passenger came over to Ging and spoke to him. 
Without hearing or understanding any of the words 
I guessed that he was inquiring about tne engine. Ging, 
being a good sailor, would reassure him. That is what 
he must have done, for the passenger nodded and went 

Suddenly I felt the remaining en- 
gine lose power, like a car that is 
running out of gasoline. And I had 
the helpless feeling of not being able 
to do anything about it. Our gas 
gauge showed plenty of fuel. Up to 
now the gauge had always been ac- 
curate so I knew that we had gaso- 
line. We lost speed quickly. There is 
kk ■ aff J ""' e coastm 6 ' n a speed boat. When 

JaL'g4 ' tne P° wer dies, you just stop moving, 

and quiekly. 

We were in a vacuum of darkness. 
Adding to our bad luck, the water 
began to chop at the sides and we 
began to roll. 

Many junks in Honk Kong's harbor are pirate vessels. Under cover 
of darkness they will plunder any vessel that they can overpower. 

The girl soon regained her oriental composure and 
went below. I went down to drink some coffee, probably 
more to have another look at the girl. She had ebony 
hair and a delicate look of innocence. 

Back on deck I took over the controls from Jack. He 
had done most of the hard work on the way in, so it 
was up to me to take us back. For an hour all went 
well. The powerful hum of the motors was not as 
quiet as usual, but I didn't worry because no craft the 
Chinese commies had could come near to catching us. 
Furthermore, they couldn't have hit us with their guns 
unless they got much closer than we intended letting 

Our good luck began to fade when one of the motors 


light. It seemed to be moving, but 
I couldn't be sure because we were 
being tossed so much. I turned again 
to the engines, where Jack had been 
working all along. We couldn't get 
a cough out of' either of the engines. 
Meanwhile the light came closer. 
It was definitely moving. 

"Douse all lights," I said. "Looks 
like we're in for some trouble." 
The approaching light faded. Maybe we hadn't been 
seen after all, I thought. But I was wrong. A full 
moon poured cool light over the ocean and faintly lit 
up our helpless speed boat. We could make out the 
hulking, clumsy outline of the old Chinese junk. 

Ging furrowed his brow and spoke to the Chinese 
"What's up?" Jack asked. 
"Maybe this ship bring pirates," said Ging. 
"What?" whispered Jack. "Pirates went out of busi- 
ness two hundred years ago." 

"Maybe so. Maybe so," conceded Ging with the air 
of a man who knows when not to press a point. 
Then the old junk drew (Continued on page 62) 


_ THERE'S NOT a horse player 
* breathing who hasn't, at one time 
'or another, felt that if the jockey 
hadn't flubbed the ride on his speedy 
nag the family jewels might still be 
intact. At a time like this the jockey 
is, of course, the number one pros- 
pect for the corpus delicti in a clear 
cut case of justifiable homicide. We 
smile at this thought, as we do at a 
ball game when someone yells, "Kill 
the umpire," but some of us, at least, 
know how tough the jockey's job is. 
We know that death, real death, 
rides unseen in every horse race. We 
know that death is always an added 
starter, unnoticed, ever ready to 

Let's take a look at some of the 
fatalities of the turf down through 
the years. Perhaps the next time we 
think it's the jockey's fault that we 
lost our two bucks, we won't be 
quite so ready to consign his small 
carcass to the burning pits of hell, or 
vats of boiling oil. 

When a jockey runs Into trouble, things happen fast and furious. He may 
need only a pat on the back after fall. He may need a doc — or undertaker. 

Death Rides 
the Races 

Jockeys moke lots of money and have plenty of spare 
time. All they've got to do to enjoy life ... is live 

By bob Mcknight 


Death Rides the Races 

Horses are more often hurt than their riders. A 
good jockey knows how to roll and avoid hooves. 

Some of these names will be familiar to you. They're 
only a few of the lads who died with their boots on: 
Lou Machado, Frankie Hayes, Harry Harris, Fred A. 
Smith, George (The Iceman) Woolf, and Earl Dew. 
Rather an imposing list of fine reinsmen, isn't it? 

Let's see what happened to them. 

Lou Machado will be remembered as one of the 
better pilots around the half-mile "bull rings" some 
years ago, a tough veteran of the racing wars. 

Lou took a header one day at the old Marlboro 
track in Maryland. It wasn't spectacular as spills go, 
nor did Lou seem to be hurt, for he got to his feet 
at once. However, he must have been dazed. He made 
no effort to scramble under the rail to the safety of the 

Some of the fans in the crowd must have screamed a 
warning, though Lou couldn't possibly have heard it 
above the general tumult. Or perhaps he thought all the 
horses had passed. In any case, one horse that had been 
trailing the field smashed into him and put an end to 
his career, Lou Machado was killed instantly "by nearly 
a ton of crashing horseflesh. 

Frankie Hayes' case was more dramatic, and just as 
final. For this, we go back to June of 1923. 

Frankie was a steeplechase rider,, a branch of race 
riding which allows considerably more leeway in the 
riding weight department than flat racing. Even so, 

r Terrific spill at Agua Caliente shows four boottrs as they wait 
for ambulance. Two of them were seriously hurt, two only |arred. 


Frankie fought a constant battle 
against going over riding weight. 
In a sense, he sweated himself to 
death, but that's not the most dra- 
matic part of his story. 

On this particular June day, 
Frankie had been promised the leg 
up on a mount named Sweet Kiss. 
The horse's owner, J. K. Frayling 
figured Sweet Kiss had an excellent 
chance to win with Frankie in the 
boot despite the fact he would have 
a talented jumper by the name of 
Gimme to beat. 

On the morning of the race, 
Frankie weighed in at 145 pounds. 
The impost assigned to Sweet Kiss 
was 130 pounds. Frankie was 15 
pounds overweight, too much for 
any owner to be expected to accept. 

Frankie faced a virtually impossi- 
ble job, that of sweating off those 15 
pounds, but he went at it with de- 
termination. He donned heavy rub- 
ber sweat clothes and jogged around 
the track in the hot sun until he was 
all but out on his feet. He was sway- 

The widow of George Woolf looks proudly at a statue of her husband who 
was one of the most beloved jockeys of all time. He died at Santa Anita. 

If a rider isn't hurt in falling, 
he may be trampled by the horses. 

ing on rubber knees, the sweat pour- 
ing off him, when he finally mount- 
ed the scales again. J. K. Frayling 
peered over his shoulder as the 
needle came to rest on 134.8 pounds. 
Frankie had worked off ten and two 
tenths pounds but was still nearly 
five pounds overweight. 

Frayling shrugged, shook his head 
and started to turn away. Then he 
saw the bitter disappointment sag- 
ging Frankie's shoulders. Sentiment 
overcame his better judgment, or 
maybe he decided any jock willing 
to torture himself as Frankie had 
done could be expected to make up 
the overweight through sheer will to 

"Okay, son," he said. "Get ready 
to ride. We'll accept the overweight." 

Gimme was made post time fa- 
vorite, being backed down to four 
to five in the books. Sweet Kiss was 
five to one. 

It looked like the bettors had pick- 
ed the right horse for the first mile 
and a half of the race. Gimme jump- 
ed flawlessly, a good two lengths 
ahead of the field. But Frankie 
Hayes kept Sweet Kiss within strik- 
ing distance in second place. 

With only two jumps to go, 

Frankie and Sweet Kiss challenged, 

moving up on the outside. Sweet 

Kiss, presumably feeling Frankie's 

(Continued on page 56 ) 




This pal of mine — Joe — luckiest fella ever there wa 

_IT WAS DAWN when Superstitious Joe and I 
'reached the empty warehouse. We figured we were 
safe. Joe was sure of it because on our way to the big 
shed a black cat had started to cross our path, then 
changed its mind and turned back. 

"I ain't ashamed to say I'm superstitious," Joe said. 
"Look how lucky everything's been for me up to now." 

"Sure . . . sure," I told him, but mostly I was telling 
it to myself, trying to pep myself up. No matter how 
many jobs I'd seen Joe pull off smoothly, I always 
sweated the next one out. 

Still, even with all his good luck charms and his 
signs and all the other junk, Superstitious was a pretty 
hep guy, and when we got to that warehouse safe, he 
opened it up inside of ten minutes. 

I began to feel a little bit better. In fact, by the time 
we started stuffing the dough into Joe's silk bag, I sort 
of got over that cheese-in-the-throat taste. Brother, was 
I wrong! 

When the raid came, it came fast. We heard the sirens 
screaming in front of the building and almost at the 
same time we heard the bulls banging down the back 

Those warehouse windows are awfully high from the 
floor, and, anyway, the ones in this shed we were in had 
bars across them, so Superstitious and I had to do some 
fast thinking. 

1 figured I'd play it safe and sit on the floor with 
my hands up. But not Joe. Superstitious beat it into 
the closet standing at one end of the warehouse. He's 
small and thin, and he began to squeeze his size six-and- 
a-half feet into a slosh bucket and then pull all the mops 
and brooms over in front of him. I went over and helped 
him hide that way. Then I kicked the closet door shut. 

When the cops broke in, they asked me where the 
other guy was. I said I was alone. Hell, the job looked 
like a one-man deal at that. 

The big shed was empty except for the safe, a desk, 

two chairs, and the one closet — so all they had to do was 
look up and down just once to see that I was telling 
the truth. 

Then I got a surprise. One nervous looking cop 
opened the closet door and took a good look inside. 
I could see the slosh bucket on the floor with a few 
mops standing up in it and leaning back against the 
rear wall. Superstitious had done a good job of hiding. 
The cop slammed the door behind him as he turned to 
walk away from the closet. 

"My God," I thought, "he's done it again. Supersti- 
tious has come up with good luck again. He's out of 
this one, clean." 

We started going out toward the door — and all of 
a sudden the nervous copper whips out a blue Colt and 
puts three shots through the closet door. The blasts 
roared through the empty warehouse for a few seconds. 
After they had quieted down, Joe's body forced the 
door open, and he spilled half out of the closet. I could 
see his feet were still in the bucket. 

A sergeant came up to the nervous cop and punched 
him easy-like in the back. 

"How come you did that, Kogan?" he asked him. 
"What made you pull a cute trick like that?" 

"I don't know," the guy said. He said it kind of 
slow, like he was trying to convince himself while he 
talked. "I don't know. I just . . . well, I heard a kind 
of funny noise in there, and I thought I'd play it safe." 

"Whaddaya mean?" the sergeant asked him. "What 
kind of a funny noise?" 

"Well," the nervous cop told him, "I can't say for 
sure, and it sounds kind of on the screwball side, but, 
well, it was a noise like somebody was knocking on 
wood. Knocking on wood, that's what it sounded like." 

The other coppers were going through Joe's pockets. 
They split up two tiny horse-shoes and a rabbit's foot. 


When the siren sounded and the cops started toward the warehouse, 
'Is it looked hopeless. Like always, though, Joe had a lucky hunch. 



A burning off-shore oil well roars like all the blast furnaces 
in Pittsburg going at once. The heat, close up, will melt 
cast iron. It's just the place to get a good action article 


_ TEN CENTS had always dial- 
™ ed excitement before, and so 
when I dialed Lee Cox, photographer 
and pilot, I knew what to expect. 
Other times when visiting New 
Orleans I had sworn never to go 
story-seeking with him again. Even 
as the coin clinked into the receiver, 
a heart-stopping remembrance of 
debris strewn ground far below and 
turgid, boiling spumes of smoke 
flashed before me. 

Lee's enthusiastic voice boomed in 
my ear. "Boy, are you lucky! I'm 
just leaving to get some pictures of 
that off-shore drilling barge that's 
burning down at Pointe-a-la-Hatche. 
Wait right there and I'll pick you 
up in a few minutes." 

Futile in my efforts to prolong the 
conversation, I sighed and replaced 
the receiver. The humid thickness of 
the New Orleans atmosphere slug- 
ged me as I walked out of the air- 
conditioned building. 

"If just one time," I thought, "I 
get down here and don't call that 
guy before I get a room, I'll be get- 
ting some sense." 

Sodden and impatient in the heat, 
I tossed my useless coat across my 
arm. Standing with the station's wall 
cool against my back, I reflected that 
maybe it would be a fine chance to 
get a little first-hand knowledge on 
the off-shore oil drilling. My limited 
knowledge told me only that the oil 
companies were engaged in a vast 

Escaping gas shoots high into the 
air. A moment later an accidental 
spark resulted in raging inferno. 

From the air, the drilling barge at Pointe-a-la-Hatche burning out of 
control looks like a gigantic blowtorch searing into the sties above. 

exploration and drilling develop- 
ment of the wastelands lying below 
New Orleans. However, I was little 
prepared for the illuminating (to say 
the least) view that was in store 
for me that December afternoon. 

"Hey, there, you flat-footed story- 
chaser! How did you sneak away 
from the obit columns long enough 
to come down to the gay city ?" 

Looking down into the crimson 
leather of the sports car, I gazed into 
the round, laughing features of Lee 
Cox, photographer extraordinary. 
Taking the meaty palm extended to 
me with one hand, I threw the suit- 
case behind the seat, narrowly miss- 
ing a haphazard and costly pile of 
photo equipment strew on the floor. 

"Look, Lee," I began, "can't all 
this wait until tomorrow ? Won't the 
fire still be burning? I didn't come 
down here to get live dope over my 
own dead body." 

Head high, looking down at me, 
and not at all at the traffic, he spoke 

disdainfully. "That's your big trou- 
ble, boy. You come all the way down 
here to do a story on the very thing 
we are going to see today. I offer a 
free trip and all you can think about 
is crawfishing into the nearest and 
coolest bed." He added disdainfully, 
"Probably thinking about using some 
canned info from one of your local 

"Yeah, and how about your free 
trip over that refinery explosion site ? 
It comes, back pretty clear to me, we 
very nearly hallowed the spot with 
our bones when you swooped down 
to get that last shot." 

Grinning broadly, my careless host 
piloted the peppy little car the rest 
of the way to the seaplane hangar 
with the same carefree air that must 
have won him fame as a fighter pilot 
in the last war. 

Later, as we winged southward 
over the sinuous Mississippi, I 
glanced down at the dismal, seeming- 
ly endless sweep of the water-logged 

marsh country, and asked, "How far 
is it to this Pointe-a-la-Hache?" 

"About fifty miles. Won't take 
long." Pausing, he added, "The fire 
is in the Pointe-a-la-Hache field, sot 
called because the little town of 
Pointe-a-la-Hache is the nearest 
settlement. Funny thing, too, about 
that field. There is a tremendous 
pocket of gas lying under it some 
10,000 feet, and those boys drilling 
down there have to be mighty care- 
ful. That's what happened to this 
rig we are going to visit, they hit the 
pocket without warning and weren't 
able to get the blowout preventers 
closed quickly enough." 

A brief racking of my oil drilling 
vocabulary told me that blowout pre- 
venters were the immense valves of 
finest steel that were on all drilling 
rigs for just such an emergency. I 
shuddered as I thought of the kind 
of force that it would take to cause 
the failure of one of those valves. 
For that matter, it would seem that 

Upside down rig near flaming barge shows result of nature on a binge. 
Pie lower left shows siie of barge before gas pressure overturned it. 

FIRE in the HOLE 

nothing made by man could withstand such ripping 
pressure coining from the bowels of the eartli. 

I hadn't been noticing the foreground for several 
moments when, with a stomach lifting motion, Lee 
nosed the plane sharply down and I got my first un- 
forgettable look at the sight that haunts all oil-field 
workers. Before us, in the shallow waters of the Gulf 
of Mexico there leaped a searing sheet of yellow flame. 
Flying at the height of it, we could see it bulging and 
billowing into the bright sunlight. It soared in great 
bulbous masses again and again, shooting up weirdly 
without a trace of smoke. Below rested the smoking 
hulk of the drilling barge from which this colossal 
mass of fire issued. 

Turning my attention to Lee's pointing finger, I 
could see that the barge itself was not burning, although 
it must have been as hot as hell. There was only the 
single jet of fire coming from one end of the barge, 
and through openings in the flame we could make out 
the derrick structure, twisted and red. The wind was 

Boss Pinky Jordan, right, supervises struggle to bring fire under con- 
trol. He saved four men who were injured badly in the initial blast. 

blowing the flames away from the barge, and so another 
barge had tied to the rear, along with several small 
boats and two airplanes. 

We tied up after a tricky down wind landing, and 
climbed onto the barge at the rear. 

Immediately we saw why all the planes were there, 
for just at the moment that we climbed the ladder, 
two "roughnecks" climbed slowly down to the adjoining 
landing and helped another worker into one of the 
planes. His clothes had apparently been all but burned 
off, and his hands and face had some bad burns showing 
livid in the sun. 

"There's Pinky Jordan now," Lee shouted over the 
roaring noise. He pointed to a thick-set, muscular fel- 
low who had stopped his direction of the salvage work 
among the tangled mass of material on the barge to 
direct the loading of the injured worker. As quick as 
the plane shoved off, he turned to supervise the large 
crew of steel helmeted men pulling on a thick cable. 
It was a futile struggle. In a few moments a huge chunk 
of machinery resembling a motor came crashing down 
from the superstructure of the drilling barge onto the 
littered material barge where we stood. 

"Pinky personally drug out the four men that 
were injured in the blast !" shouted Lee. 

Not attempting further conversation against the in- 
sane roaring, he proceeded to move as close to the fire 
as the heat permitted to take his pictures. I started to 
follow, but Pinky motioned me back out of the way of 
the sweating roughnecks. 

"Fellow," Pinky yelled, "you better not go up there. 
We're looking for that pressure to blow out a hole 
under the barge big enough to lower the Gulf two feet." 
Probably guessing the nature of our visit, he said, 
"Come back tomorrow if you want to see us squelch 
that burner." 

We arrived the next day to find the fire had petered 
out of its own accord during the night, as if knowing 
that oil-fire fighting specialists, John Jobe and Associ- 
ates, had arrived. They stuck around, however, thinking 
that perhaps the well would again start blowing. 

We walked over the material barge, climbed up the 
rickety ladder to the drilling barge and surveyed the 
scene before us. The living quarters had been gutted, 
all the furnishings reduced to ashes. The sheet metal 
buildings serving the crew for living quarters and mess 
hall, had twisted in every manner of crazy pattern, the 
very coating of galvanized matter on the tin had peeled. 

The roughnecks were working furiously under the 
floor of the drilling platform ( Continued on page 64 ) 



1.000.000 GALS FOR SALE 


Your story on female slavery in North Africar was 
far too general. What is needed in an expose of this 
sort is specific facts, places and names. Only then will 
public opinion sway toward angry denunciation of slave 
trading. With public opinion behind it, the UN can 
start to eliminate the vicious racket. As it is, your 
article fell flat on its nose. 

Stuart Brigham 
Tampa, Florida 


In Action's August issue, the terrific expose of Afri- 
can slavery gets a heartfelt "well done" from me. It's 
the kind of story that packs plenty of punch and makes 
people mad enough to do something. Really excellent. 
Samuel Brooks 
Pocatello, Idaho 

ED: Sam, meet Stu. Shall we hold your coats f 



I'm frankly surprised that in Greatest Throws of the 
Century you didn't mention the late, unlamented Joe 
Stalin. He was far and away the greatest bull thrower 
of our time. Otherwise, thanks for an interesting, in- 
formative article. 

James Lichener 

Akron, Ohio 



Could you inform me whether or not any python has 
ever exceeded a length of 30 feet? As usually seems 
to be the case, in questions sent to Action, this argu- 
ment started in a bar. A friend of mine, who was drunk 
at the time, claimed to have seen a 30 footer in Malaya. 
Could he possibly not be a liar? 

Joe Chase 

Trenton, New Jersey 

ED :He could possibly not be a liar, although he is very 
likely stretching his python to the breaking point. This 
specie of reptile has been reported to be over 30 feet in 
length. Unfortunately spectators rarely take careful 
tape measurements. Recently, near Singapore, a group 
of workers claimed to have seen the grandpappy of 
them all, a monster 35 feet long. 



Sergeant Massey was one of my best pals for sixteen 
months in Korea. Your recent story on him was fine, 
but it lacked one detail that is important. When he car- 
ried a wounded ROK Marine to safety behind our lines 
after raiding the castle (the crude buildings where a 
Korean Prince lived before the war) he was considered 
a hero. But he had carried that ROK almost two miles 
with a fragment of mortar shell in his shoulder! In 
Action's account there is no mention of him being hurt. 
In fairness to Massey, it should be told. What he did 
was really great. 

Corporal M. Hutchins 


ED: Our correspondent had a tough time getting any 
dope at all out of Massey. The sergeant, like ail genuine 
heroes, preferred to talk about everything but his hero- 



Thank you for an entertaining and highly constructive 
story. Your article in August Action entitled How To 
Get Your Head Blown Off offers excellent advice. I was 
particularly interested in it because last year my hus- 
band was shot through the arm by another deer hunter 
who was passing a loaded rifle over a fence to him. 
Luckily, the bullet did not hit the bone and John suffer- 
ed only severe powder burns plus a flesh wound. I 
told him that now his arm matched his head. Each had 
a hole in it. I enjoy Action. It has some fine stories. 
Mrs. Judy Meadows 
Portland, Maine 

ED: // you weren't already married, we'd propose. 


You'll never know the service you are performing 
for sportsmen when you run a story on safety in the 
field. I've never been hurt, but three years ago this 
November, I accidentally shot my hunting partner in 
the stomach. If I'd had enough brains to keep the safe- 
ty on, or to hand him the rifle properly, he wouldn't 
have been hurt. As it is, he nearly died. I know what 
torture it is to sweat it out, wondering if a friend is 
going to die because of your stupidity. Articles like 
yours may make hunters think, before they have the 
kind of experience I had. 

name withheld 
Ontario, Canada 

speed record with 368.5 miles per hour. Could you 

verify these figures? 

James Mantonny 
Qeveland, Ohio 

ED : Your figures are close but not exact. Actually, the 
first speed-tested mile was made by Chasseloup-Laubat 
in 1898. In a Jeantaud, they averaged 39.23 miles per 
hour, a terrific speed in those days. At this printing, 
the world's mile record is 394.2 miles per hour. John 
Cobb, on September 16, 1947, made this record with 
his Railton-Mobil on the Bonneville Flats in Utah. 



Who you trying to kid ? In your last issue the picture 
on page 31 is a P-40. But in the story you keep talking 
about Captain Curtis flying a Sabrejet. Only a wise 
guy would try to thumb off a P-40 for a Sabre. A pal 
of mine and I both saw it. Any guy with half a brain 
can see the difference. 

Peter Shannon 
Phoenix, Arizona 



I'd just like to show my appreciation for what I 
consider to be a hell of a good magazine. Most men's 
mags on the stands today either ignore sex or wallow 
in it. I think you're doing a good job of giving us 
readers both sex and adventure in the right proportions. 
Certainly there are no two other subjects so fascinating 
to men today. Good Luck. That's all I wanted to say. 
Peter Maton 
New York, New York 

ED : Pete, if you and your pal put your half -brains to- 
gether into one practical, whole brain, you'll take time 
to read the caption under the picture. 



My research indicates that the first speed-tested mile 
was made by Serpollet who averaged 75.4 miles per hour 
over the run. Also that John Cobb still holds the world's 

Bullfighting is not for 'sissies. Matadors often 
are gored or trampled to death by enraged bulls. 


My boyfriend came over recently and spent the en- 
tire evening going through an Action that my brother 
had brought home. It seems a very lousy trick to pull 
on a gal who's working hard at hearing wedding bells. 
Nuff said. 

Joanne Welsley 
Miami, Florida 



With the rash of bullfighting pictures and books and 
stories in magazines, I'm seriously wondering if any- 
one ever gets hurt ,in a bull ring. Manolete got killed, 
of course, and everyone is always talking about it. But 
has anyone else ever been punctured? I suspect that 
there is more bull to bullfighting than the one charging 
the red cape. What's the truth ? 

Edgar Bellows 

Dallas, Texas 

ED: Pull in your horns, Ed. As the pic on this page 
shows, there is plenty of danger involved when a man 
on foot irritates the toro. You hear about Manolete more 
than any other simply because he was to bullfight- 
ers what B'mg Crosby is to crooners or what Babe 
Zaharias is to female athletes. He was absolute tops in 
his field. 



{Continued from page 6) 

escapes the final tragedy of punch-drunk- 

The type of fighter who "mixes it," 
who goes in determined to give punish- 
ment even if he takes it, is also more 
liable to become punch-drunk than the 
more guarded and scientific type of boxer 
who is careful and skilful in defense. 

FIRST SYMPTOMS of punch-drunk- 
enness are rarely dramatic, although 
there are episodes which have served as 
a warning. 

Gene Tunney has described how he was 
once hit on the head by his sparring 
partner. He went on and boxed three 
more rounds, but later he had no recol- 
lection of having done so. He was "out 
on his feet." He remembered nothing, in 
fact, until he woke up the next morning. 

Gradually he remembered his own name 
and that he was a boxer. It was three 
days, though, before he could remember 
the names of his most intimate friends. 
He had to give up training and not leave 
his cabin at all, for it was essential that 
the three newspapermen who were staying 
at the camp should not learn of his con- 
dition. When he returned to normal, he 
decided that any sport which exposed 
people to such accidents was dangerous. 
"The first seed of retirement was sown 
then," he writes. 

Such cases of temporary loss of 
memory are frequent, even in amateur 
bouts. One 20-year-old amateur boarded a 
train after a bout and was six hundred 
miles away from his home when he 
came to himself again. Others have re- 
ported temporary difficulty in concentrat- 
ing on anything and a loss of interest in 
the opposite sex. 

These after-effects don't necessarily in- 
dicate any permanent damage. It is un- 
usual for much harm to result from in- 
cidents of this kind. They are simply 
warnings that the integrity of the brain 
is being risked. If punch-drunkenness 
follows further batterings, those first 
symptoms were generally so insidious 
that they were noticed only by the boxer's 
wife or his trainer. 

His wife may complain of a subtle 
change in his personality which she can't 
understand. "He's different," she may say 
helplessly. Or she may complain that he's 
irritable. He may be absent-minded and 
his memory may be poor. He may have 
drifted into a state of happy forgetful- 
ness. His emotions too, may have become 
more easily roused so that he is at the 
mercy of every passing stimulus — he may 
weep easy tears during the sad scenes at 
a movie and then roar with' laughter at 
some joke while the tears are still wet on 
his face. 

The boxer himself may strongly deny 


that there's anything wrong, either be- 
cause he genuinely does not realize it, or 
because he cannot face the truth. His 
manager too may tend to dismiss the 
wife's complaints as imagination. After 
all, it is in his interest that the boxer 
go on boxing, and it's always so much 
easier to believe the thing that you want 
to believe. 

Then the physical signs begin to ap- 
pear. First of all there is a slowness in 
reaction time. This shows in the ring. 
Movements are made with the old skill, 
but too late. The boxer may develop a 
glass jaw. The lightest blow will knock 
him out Later on he may develop an 
iron jaw, when nothing short of a bat- 
tering ram will get him off his feet. After 
a few blows he will reach a stage where 
he can take endless punishment, receiving 
a series of blows which he has not the 
initiative or speed to ward off, and from 
which unconsciousness will not come to 
save him. 

Next, tremors begin to appear, first in 

Natural Stumblebums 

PROFESSIONAL butterfly catch- 
ers often use an insidious method 
of trapping their prey. They set out 
fruit that has begun to rot. The 
fermenting fruit acts on the butter- 
flies in much the same way as wine 
acts on humans. 

After a few sips, the beautiful 
creatures usually take one or two for 
the road, stumble a few feet away 
and fall dead drunk. The naturalist 
then sobers them up and adds them 
to his collection. 


— • — 

the head, and spreading later to the arms. 
He begins to walk a little unsteadily, and 
every now and then one foot or leg will 
come flopping down as though uncon- 

If he gi/es up boxing at this stage he 
will probably improve. Sometimes, how- 
ever, the process has gone too far and 
even if he retires it may continue to 
progress. If he goes on boxing there is 
no doubt at all that it will. 

His voice soon begins to change as 
well. It becomes thick and halting, and 
he speaks in a mumble which is difficult 
to follow. His movements become jerky 
or sluggish and he may develop manner- 
isms such as scowling and grimacing. He 
reacts automatically to the old stimuli. A 
sound that suggests the ring bell may 
make him spring into some characteristic 
postion of defense or attack. 

The mental symptoms also become 
more pronounced. His memory gets so 
weak that he has difficulty in remember- 
ing anything even for a few minutes. His 

mood swings violently almost from mo- 
ment to moment. He will laugh or cry 
or fly into a rage at anything or nothing. 
Reading no longer appeals to him. In fact 
nothing can really hold his interest, apart 
from boxing. 

A boxer in this state is much more 
susceptible to alcohol than the normal 
person, and a few drinks may throw him 
off his balance. Even without drinks his 
lack of control over moods may be 
dangerous. One boxer, accused of mur- 
dering a woman in a fit of jealousy, 
pleaded insanity on the grounds that he 
was punch-drunk. His plea failed and he 
was executed, which may have been right 
according to law. But the doctor's report 
clearly showed that his central nervous 
system had been affected and he was 
emotionally unstable. 

IN THE END, when the condition is 
fully developed, the punch-drunk box- 
er becomes half dead. Thoughts flicker 
out and he sinks into a state not far from 
madness. Sometimes he may end up in a 
mental hospital. In other cases he may go 
on living at home, shambling unsteadily 
about in his mental twilight, unable to 
manage successfully even the simplest 
affairs of life. 

At this stage there is no treatment. 
Once the nervous tissue has been destroy- 
ed it is gone for good. It is not capable 
of regeneration like most of the other 
tissues of the body. 

Prevention has been discussed fre- 
quently. Headguards are not thought to 
be effective by most experts. Some even 
say they are actually dangerous because 
they lead to a false sense of security. 

It has been suggested that there might 
be some improvement i f more points 
were given during a bout as a reward for 
skilful defense. The tendency on modern 
boxing is for all the interest to be cen- 
tered on attack. The only effective pre- 
vention, however, and even this may fail, 
is a strict limitation of the number of 
blows to which a boxer is exposed. 

This can be achieved by spacing out his 
contests so that he doesn't fight too often 
in any one year, and by limiting the 
length of his boxing life. The whole 
problem is at present being studied by an 
international committee with medical cor- 
respondents in 60 countries. 

It has been shown that even a rela- 
tively light blow on the head may cause 
the electrical rhythms of the brain to 
become abnormal for several hours. That 
is why doctors say it is definitely un- 
wise to expose the brain unnecessarily to 
shock of any kind. 

Maybe in a few years, as a result of 
research being carried out and recom- 
mendations being made, slap-happy, 
punch-drunk boxers will be relics of box- 
ing's rough, raw history. Either that or 
the noble art of self-defense may be ban- 
ned in all civilized countries on the 
grounds that it is inhumane. 



(Continued from page 15) 

estimates run to between thirteen and 
seventeem thousand. Women interviewed 
have been teen-agers, mothers, grand- 
mothers, old maids and prostitutes. 
Only through interviewing all types can 
a common denominator be reached. Only 
through vast numbers can one come to 
a scientific average of women's behavior 
in sex. 

That interviewing these vast numbers 
of all types will result in a positively 
accurate tabulation of sexual behavior in 
females is scientifically certain, for as 
Doctor B. W. Carter says, "The sub- 
ject is aware from the first that she is 
being dispassionately studied by a sin- 
cere, shrewd and well informed scientific 

At this point it can be stated that the 
volume will support many of the ac- 
tivities hinted at for years by psychia- 
trists, psychologists, marriage counselors 
and doctors of medicine. For example, as 
these professional men have implied, 
there is greater variety practiced by 
women than has been generally expected. 
Approximately eighty percent of the 
women who took part in this Unique 
poll have had deviationist experiences 
with their sex partners. This does not 
necessarily mean that it is a regular habit 
with them, but it does mean that, at 
one time or another, they have deviated 
from what is popularly believed to be 
normal sex activities. 

An important section of the book will 
deal with premarital experiences. Sub- 
jects have been asked if they petted be- 
fore being married, how much and how 
often. They have been asked if they 
had premarital affairs and how often. 
Most important of all, they have been 
asked how their premarital experiences 
affected their married lives. Was petting 
good for their later marriage? Was ac- 

tual intercourse a help to marriage? It 
has been discovered that usually pre- 
marital sex activities do help the mar- 
riage. A girl has been prepared for con- 
summation of matrimonial ties rather 
than simply thrown into a honeymoon 
with no knowledge of what lies before 

The report will show that the more 
education a wife has the more likely she 
is to be capable of physical abandon in 
relations which brings the most emo- 
tional satisfaction. Some women, who 
have serious inhibitions, have never had 
sex fulfillment even after years of mar- 
riage, while others have inhibitions which 
make them fear and reject stimulation 
achieved by deviation. It is hoped that 
with the publication of this Kinsey re- 
port, some of these inhibitions will be 
lessened, for if a woman finds that she 
is not alone in her sex activities she is 
less likely to feel guilty or ashamed. 

The book, while stating a scientific 
average in sexual behavior, will actually 
point up the fact that it is impossible 
to state that this or that or the other 
is an average, for there are as many 
varied sex desires and drives as there 
are females. Some women love to have 
various parts of their bodies carressed 
or kissed. Some love to have their arms 
stroked or their hair stroked. Others 
love to be kissed on their hands or on 
their shoulders. There are many singular 
reactions to sex which will be discussed 
in Kinsey's report. For example, there 
are certain women who are completely 
unresponsive awake, yet can achieve sex- 
ual fulfillment in their dreams. Others 
can achieve it in their waking imagina- 
tion without being able to do so with 
a male partner. 

Kinsey feels that this volume will be 
of tremendous value to the average wom- 
an who reads it as well as to men of 
science and medicine. He is convinced 
that marriages can not only be saved, 
but made happier and closer by wives 
finding out that they are not bad or 

— • 

different if they deviate occasionally. 

He writes, "It is unwarranted to be- 
lieve that particular types of sex be- 
havior are expressions of psychoses or 
neuroses. They are more often expres- 
sions of what is biologically basic in 
mammalian behavior. Many socially and 
intellectually significant persons have so- 
cially taboo items in their sexual his- 
tories, and among them they have ac- 
cepted nearly the whole range of so- 
called sexual abnormalities." 

Kinsey admits that the present volume 
has been twice as much work as the 
original Sexual Behavior of the Human 
Male, which was greeted with such en- 
thusiasm that it immediately became a 
best seller and still, years later, is selling 
very well. 

It has not been women's false modesty 
or shyness that has made this book so 
difficult, but rather the simple fact that 
the sex life of the human female is more 
complex, she has more delicate and var- 
ied reactions to given situations and she 
has more mental and emotional qualifica- 
tions to make about her reactions to such 
topics as nudity, contraception, homosex- 
ual experience, abortion, erotic stimuli 
and loss of virginity. 

However, to make up for the addition- 
al work, this book should be twice as 
valuable as the first work, for men's 
sex lives have never been quite as clothed 
in secrecy as those of females. Although 
this new work will be treated as sen- 
sationalistic and viewed with horror by 
prudes, spinsters and some prim religious 
people, Kinsey hopes it will be taken as 
it is meant, a factual report on sexual 
behavior in women, no more no less. 

To the cynics who suspect that Kinsey 
is doing this work for money, it should 
be explained that, although the original 
volume made profits in excess of five 
million dollars, Kinsey did not profit by 
the book. What he could have earned, 
he insisted on putting in a fund for the 
advancement of sex knowledge. 

In the future, the indomitable Doctor 
intends to do more work on sexual be- 
havior. He plans to do a volume on the 
behavior of divorced men and women, 
on children, sex offenders, and prostitu- 
tion. He expects to interview probably 
one hundred thousand persons before his 
work is done. 

When not working, Doctor Kinsey 
spends his time quietly at home. He en- 
joys children and they like him. A short 
time ago the youngsters in his neighbor- 
hood were putting on a play where the 
Doctor was an honored guest. One part 
of the skit showed a girl who had just 
come down from Venus. She was met 
by a young man in the role of Doctor 
Kinsey who began interviewing her. Half 
way through the interview, the girl from 
Venus whispered something in the Doc- 
tor's ear and he fainted dead away. 

Doctor Alfred Kinsey laughed harder 
than anyone. 





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(Continued from page 21) 

John H. Corcoran. Co-piloting was Lieu- 
tenant Richard Kerr. And behind them 
was the man who watched into the 
crystal ball that would tell our future, 
the radar operator, Lieutenant George 
Huntley, Jr, 

"What's your name?" the captain call- 

I told him. 

"Ever been into Narsarssuak before?" 

I said we had. 

"Well, then you know what a hell of 
a place that fjord can be when it's sealed 
with an overcast Just hang close. We'll 
do okay." 

Captain Corcoran seemed calm and his 
voice was deliberately reassuring. 

"Our radarman can see through this 
stuff," Captain Corcoran said. "I'm going 
to fly back to the mouth of the fjord. 
Follow me." 

The 17 made a sharp 180 degree turn. 
So did I. 

Above the mouth of the fjord, where it 
streams in from the sea, Captain Cor- 
coran called again : 

"This stuff is about 3700 feet thick . . . 
when I start down, follow at about 10 
feet distance." 

Perspiration trickled off my nose and 
soaked into my flight jacket. Brownie 
was sweating too. 

"Get ready." Captain Corcoran's voice 
broke the silence. "We're going to start 
our drop in approximately 30 seconds." 

I pulled off my dark glasses, threw 
them toward the rear of the cabin ar.d 
started the windshield wipers. I looked 
at the rock-filled clouds below. One slip 
— that's all it would take. 

We were at 4000 feet indicating 155 
mph when we got the order to slack off 
on speed. Then the 17 skipper called. 

"Hang onto our tail . . . here we go !" 

The windshield wipers raced wildly. 
Thick vapors curled around the propellers 
until we couldn't see them. And then we 
lost sight of the B-17I 

I pulled back on the stick, shoved full 
throttles and called Captain Corcoran. 

"We've lost you . . . I'm going back 

"Roger," he called, his voice still calm, 
still deliberately reassuring. 

The 17 rendezvoused with us again. We 
tried the drop once more. Again we lost 
sight of the 17 after about 200 feet and 
climbed back up. I checked the fuel. Only 
45 gallons. Something had to happen, 
real fast. 

"You wilting to take a chance on a 
plan we've got?" Captain Corcoran radio- 

"What choice have we?" I answered. 
"This gas will give out any week now !" 

Then he explained there was a fairly 
straight 14 mile long stretch in the fjord. 

"I want you to fly formation with me,"' 
he instructed. "Check our heading." It 
was 86 degrees. "Hold that heading and 
when I signal you, cut your power and 
descend at 1500 feet a minute for two 
and a half minutes. If you don't break 
through the overcast in that time, gun 
'er back up here full throttle." 

He explained that his radarman would 
sight the 14-mile long stretch on his 
scope and get us started dead center 
between the mountains on each side. The 
B-17 would stay aloft until we radioed 
we had made it. If we made it. 

At the designated spot over the valley 
of clouds, Captain Corcoran wished us 
good luck and then commanded, "Drop !" 

We were now at 3800 feet doing 155 
mph. I nosed her down, chopped the 
power, dropped the landing gear and 

Thirty seconds after we dipped into 
the clouds we had dropped from 3800 feet 
to 2800 . . . then 2300 ... 2000 .. . 
1800. I was dropping faster than Cor- 
coran had instructed. Don't ask me why. 
I hate to tell you I was just plain scared 
to hell and wanted to get it over as fast 
as possible. 

Brownie and I had our noses pres&d 
against the windshield watching, praying 
. . . 1500 . . . 1200 ... the engines whined 
... 800 ... 500 then a ghostly glow 
like dawn on a cloudy morning . . . then 
light. We were through the overcast ! We 
could see light and the water of the fjord 

"Look out!" cried Brownie. "Pull her 
left, left." 

I veered left automatically and at the 
same time I saw what had unnerved 
Brownie. There was a jagged black rock 
ledge and we'd been heading smack into 
it. I dipped to 75 feet elevation and began 
winding up the fjord. 

The field at Narsarssuak is a bitch. 
Instead of being level, it slopes downward 
toward the fjord. You have to skim the 
water and land upgrade. I dipped low, 
leveled out as the wheels touched and 
cut the power. We rolled to a halt near 
the operations shack. Brownie and I were 
both as wet from sweating as if someone 
had thrown a bucket of water on us. 
And that's quite a feat in ten below zero 

We climbed out as the B-17 landed. 
I almost kissed Corcoran. 

"Congratulations," he said. "Nice job of 
flying up there today." 

But it wasn't until that night while I 
was having a drink with the B-17 skip- 
per that he opened up. 

"You made history today," he told me. 

"History ?" 

"Yeah, we didn't think you had a prayer 
of making it through that overcast." He 
gulped down the rest of his drink. "You 
see, we didn't want to tell you up there," 
he said gesticulating, "but you're the 
first guy we ever tried to bring in here 
on a radar-controlled approach." 



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(Continued from page 29) 

Dr. Edmund Bergler, a prominent New 
York psychiatrist who has made a study 
of the chronic gambler, defines such a 
person as a neurotic who cannot control 
his conduct. He is a masochist, a person 
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because he secretly likes to lose. There 
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and the person who wagers a dollar once 
in a while. Tell a gambler he likes to 
lose and he'll laugh at you, but it's a 
psychiatric fact 

Many people feel that anyone who 
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the popularity of church bingos, car 
raffles, or a few cents wagered during 
a friendly bridge game and classify all 
who participate as gamblers. From a 
medical, or psychiatric viewpoint, such is 
not the case. These people, at least most 
of them, can quit any time they want. 

Watch a true gambler in action. No 
matter what game he's playing there is a 
time, sooner or later, when he's far 
ahead in a particular session. He could 
quit at that moment and leave with 
enough winnings to last him a month or 
a year, depending of course on the size 
of the game. But does he quit? 

The answer is no. He'll stay in the 
game until he's broke. Or, if it's really 
his night and he just can't lose, he'll be 
back the next night. The chronic gambler 
is a bunch of nerves while winning and 
gets no emotional relief until he's cleaned 

John Scarne, a New York expert on 
gambling, is positive that a true gambler 
never gives up. He says, "Sure, I know 
plenty who have quit. I see them going 
around with long faces because they have 
lost all their money. But they only quit 
temporarily, just until they can get more 
money to play with." 

Social service workers agree that gam- 
bling is almost as big a home breaker 
as alcoholism, and is more insidious in 
some ways because of the mistaken 
thought that chronic gamblers are few. 

A recent survey showed that 55 million 
United States and Canadian citizens 
wager money. As stated before, many of 
these people consider it as mild enter- 
tainment, church bingos or the odd two 
dollars on a bang tail's nose. A survey 
conducted by Graphic Institute of New 
York City showed that in 1949, 17 billion 
dollars was spent on organized gambling 
in America. It's a cinch that the person 
who only wagers occasionally didn't sup- 
ply the bulk of that kind of money. What 
kind of person did? 

Dr. Bergler, the New York psychiatrist 
and expert on gambling fever, lists six 
characteristics of people who did. And 
any one of the characteristics is enough 
to signify such a person required help. 


The chronic gambler is a great one for 
taking chances. Not only at bucking odds 
during a game, but in everything he does. 
He wants to cross the street and sees a 
fast approaching automobile. Rather than 
wait a moment until the car passes, the 
chronic gambler will dash across and 
take a chance on being killed'or maimed. 

During a game of chance an ordinary 
person may have his mind on half a 
dozen things. The car he's going to buy, 
the girl friend, anything. But not so with 
the chronic gambler, his mind is 100% 
on his game. It has been said that if a 
psychotic gambler were in a game, and 
knew he was going to be executed the 
next day, his thoughts would still be en- 
tirely on the game. 

Let's take a quick trip to Las Vegas, 
Nevada, the gambler's idea of heaven on 
earth and study the faces of some of the 
players. Some of them are smiling, laugh- 
ing, relaxed. Others are tense and silent, 
even though the stakes they play for may 
not be as high as that of the first group. 
These are psychotic, or true gamblers. 
Beads of perspiration stand out on their 
foreheads. They are glassy eyed and thin 
lipped. Their hands tremble and they stare 
at the dice or roulette wheel as if they 
were hypnotized which, in a sense, they 

A psychotic gambler is always full of 
optimism. Fate is against everyone at the 
table except him. He actually feels he 
can force luck his way even when he 
understands the mathematical odds of 
combinations. If he plays poker he'll prob- 
ably know that five out of every ten 
opening hands will be busts, four will 
contain one pair, and one will be better 
than a pair. If he holds a pair and draws 
three cards his chances of making three 
of a kind are one to 26. But he'll think 
he can make a full house or three of a 
kind. Mathematically, with a pair to start, 
chances of making a full house is 1-89. 
Chances of drawing two cards the same 
as his pair to make four of a kind are 
1-359. And that's taking it for granted 
the game is honest. 

A psychotic gambler can't stop when 
he's winning. "Why should I?" he asks. 
"This is my lucky night." He can't stop 
when he's losing. "Why should I?" he 
asks. "I have to make up my losses." 

A normal person gets a kick out of 
winning during a card or bingo game. 
The gambler gets a thrill between the 
time of betting and the outcome of the 
game. He is in a state of tension that 
is both pleasurable and painful at the 
same time. The psychiatric term for this 
condition is masochism. 

As an example of gambling masochism, 
take the case history of William X, a 
young business man who had himself 
declared bankrupt. His financial insol- 
vency was caused by a game that is 
merely relaxation to most people, billiards. 

Bill was a good billiard player but by 
no means outstanding. When competing 

against a run-of-the-mill player he would 
always win. But every time Bill played 
an ordinary player, and won his bet, he 
had a let-down feeling. He would then 
deliberately seek out the best player in 
the house, wager all his money, and, of 
course, lose. 

In the Journal of Criminal Psychopath' 
ology Dr. Bergler calls this the gambler's 
"unconscious desire for self punishment," 
a masochistic trait common to the true 

How can the psychotic gambler be 

According to Dr. Bergler, and other 
medical men, the answer lies in the field 
of psychiatry. As has been shown, the 
gambler subconsciously wants to hurt 
himself or someone close to him. And the 
psychiatrist's job is to find this hidden 
drive. But it is difficult to get the gam- 
bler to see the reason for help. Alcoholics 
realize they need help but seldom does the 
gambler feel the same way. He considers 
his gambling normal. 

Even so, once a gambler can he talked 
into psychiatric care, half the battle is 
won. By means of psychoanalysis it is 
possible to draw forth from the subcon- 
scious the fear or hatred that causes his 

Many gamblers are children at heart 
and have only grown up physically. We 
all have fears and desires in childhood 
but most of us lose these fears and 
conquer our desires for castles in the air 
during the period that leads to adolesc- 
ence. This is nearly always so in a home 
where children receive the love which is 
necessary for proper emotional growth. 

Medical case histories show that many 
gamblers came from homes where this 
parental warmth was lacking. As children 
they sensed they were unwanted and as 
adults they found gambling gave them 
a false sense of power that made them 
seem important in their own eyes and, 
as they often imagine, in the eyes of 

Whatever the problem is, and every 
gambler has one, his only hope seems to 
lie in psychiatric help. It may be that 
someday gambling fever will be as easily 
cured as the once fatal diseases that are 
now cured overnight with the wander 
drugs. When that day comes it will be 
truly a national blessing. For what is 
more pathetic than a person afflicted by 
an illness that always makes him want 
to lose? 

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(Continued from page 18) 

rapidly drifting to the southwest. 

I looked up at the ship and was de- 
ciding whether to preserve my breath for 
the long battle in front of me, or scream 
again, when I felt it. Something hard 
and scaly brushed lightly against me. 
I turned. And then I really bellowed. 

It was the manta ray all right. It had 
brushed me in passing and now had turn- 
ed and was headed directly for me. God, 
I never saw anything so big, so com- 
pletely, horribly evil, in my worst dreams. 

The giant mouth was wide and the sun 
glinted on the rows and rows of green, 
moldy teeth. The great hollow cavern 
behind those teeth yawned like the chasms 
of hell. 

I don't think I moved for the next 
two seconds. I was completely overcome 
with the paralysis of fear and horror. 

And then it was upon me. 

They say that when death approaches, 
during that last fragmentary rao/nent be- 
tween one world and the next, a man's 
whole life passes before his eyes. That 
may be true, but in my case it wasn't. 
The only thing which passed before my 
eyes was the awful realization of what 
was happening to me during those few 
seconds while I still remained conscious. 

My whole body was but a minute mor- 
sel for that great devilfish. I felt the jar 
as his pale red lips sucked me in; I felt 
the tearing of my clothes and my flesh 



as I went past those rows of teeth. I 
felt a terrible slimy sense of mucous en- 
closing around me ; I felt an unholy, aw- 
ful fear. There was a sudden congestion, 
a mortally grim pressure, a foul, deca- 
dent odor. And then there was nothing. 
My last conscious thought was the realiza- 
tion that I had been swallowed whole by 
this huge monster of the deep. 

(Editor's Note: The following words 
are written by William Chalmers, first 
mate aboard the sloop Miasma.) 

The first realization I had that Captain 
Fleming was overboard was when I heard 
a scream above the low moan of the 
wind. I knew in a second what had hap- 
pened. I had just ducked my head below 
the hatch when the vessel lurched to the 
port. I realized that Cap must have start- 
ed aloft and been thrown into the sea. 

I can't say now that I consciously 
thought of what I did next. It must have 
been instinct and it also must have been 
partly the years I've spent in tropic 

But instead of rushing up on deck, I 
dropped to the floor of the cabin below 
and grabbed the Magnum rifle. Then 1 
went back on deck and yelled for the boy 
at the helm to put about. After that I 
looked in the direction from which I 
had heard the yell. 

I saw it happen. 

I saw Cap Fleming start his swim for 
the Miasma. Then, a second later, I saw 
the manta swirl in the water and head 
for him. I saw the captain's body swal- 
lowed by those tremendous jaws. 

That's when I raised the rifle to my 
shoulder. God certainly must have di- 


"You go in and see Charlie, dear. He'll explain everything." 

rected my trigger finger that day. I don't 
even remember firing. Later, Chips, the 
cook, told me I held my index finger 
pressed to the trigger until the magazine 
was empty. 

Blood was spreading on the water as I 
dropped the gun to the deck. I knew that 
I had hit my target all right, but I wasn't 
sure at all that the giant devilfish was 
killed. I certainly was far from sure 
that one of those lead slugs that had 
penetrated the fish hadn't also penetrated 
the body of Captain Fleming. 

But I never bothered to think about 

We had been towing our dingy, the 
one Cap and I had used early that morn- 
ing to return aboard the Miasma. Thank 
the Lord we'd been too hung-over to haul 
it aboard. 

Moments later I dropped into the dingy 
and grabbed the oars. I yelled to Chips, 
standing on deck above me, to toss off 
the painter. Instead, he climbed down be- 
side me and taking the long butcher's 
knife from the sheath at his side, cut 
the line. 

A dozen strokes and we reached the 
side of the giant ray, which was slowly 
turning on its back. Blood was streaming 
from a half dozen torn gaps in the head 
and belly of the great monster. It was still 
feebly flipping its great fins. 

I know that I never believed we could 
do anything for poor Captain Fleming, 
but I guess no one ever completely gives 
up hope. When Chips grabbed hold of 
the fish, I took the long butcher knife 
from his hand and literally climbed from 
the boat to the huge stomach which was 
floating facing the sky. I started just 
beneath where the gills ended and I began 
cutting. With fear, hysteria, I don't know 
quite what it was, I worked like a mad- 

Anyway, in less than two minutes, the 
point of the knife exposed a piece of tan 
cotton cloth. 

For the first time I caught my breath 
and took hope. And although I wasted 
precious seconds and even minutes, I used 
the knife with caution. It wasn't too 
difficult once I had started to split the 
giant belly. 

We got him out in one piece. He was 
badly mashed, one arm was broken and 
he was covered with slime. He was un- 
conscious but he was still breathing. 

I realized that that giant fish's belly 
must have been filled with air when I 
had first stuck the knife into him and a 
blast of foul gas hit my face. 

The rest is history. We got Captain 
Fleming back on board. Artificial respira- 
tion finally brought him to, and penicil- 
lin and drugs kept him alive while we 
fought our way back to Tampico through 
the gathering storm. Six weeks in the 
hospital put him back on his feet as 
good as new. 

We're sailing again, now, but if there's 
a manta around, Cap watches his step I 



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{Continued on page 56 


Continued from page 55 



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(Continued from page 39) 

urgency and determination, responded 
gamely. Head and head the two game 
thoroughbreds approached the final jump 
and took off simultaneously. 

Sweet Kiss passed Gimme in mid-air. 

Gimme was staggering now but fought 
it out with rare courage. The rest of 
the field now strung out many lengths 
behind, Frankie Hayes and Sweet Kiss 
weren't to be denied. 

The roar of the crowd as Sweet Kiss, 
the winner, pounded across the finish line 
was suddenly hushed. A few yards past 
the finish wire, Frankie Hayes crumpled 
and pitched from the saddle. 

He was dead. His heart had finally 
rebelled at Frankie's rigorous efforts to 
maintain riding weight 

ONCE IN a while humor creeps into 
the drama, like the time Ralph 
Neves piled up at Bay Meadows race 
track near San Francisco. Ralph was 
only 19 at the time. 

It was a May afternoon and Ralph was 
needling his way through the pack into 
contention aboard a four-year-old by the 
name of Pannikins, when the colt crossed 
his forelegs and catapulted Ralph into 
the inside rail. 

Fannikins lurched to his feet and set 
out after the other horses. Neves, a 
crumpled blur of silks, remained motion- 
less. He was rushed to the hospital in an 
ambulance where a doctor listened vainly 
for a heart beat. He shook his head and 
pulled a sheet over Ralph's head. 

"This rider," he said, "is dead." 

Neves, the Portuguese Pepperpot, re- 
fused to stay dead. 

A moment after the grim pronounce- 
ment he sat up on the emergency table. 

"I've gotta get the hell outa here," he 
said. "I've got a mount in the seventh." 

A few years after this episode, Ralph 
won the title of "guttiest rider of the 
meeting" at Santa Anita. 

Phil Kelly's "death" is still mentioned 
around the Shed Rows of the country. 
Phil was prominent about the same time 
as Snapper Garrison during the early 
years of the century. 

It happened at the old City Park race- 
track in New Orleans back in 1906. Phil 
was piloting an aged plater named Stride- 
well when he ran into a traffic jam at 
the head of the stretch. When he tried to 
ease back out of trouble, he threw his 
mount off balance and the pair of them 
piled up in the dirt. 

There were no track hospitals or 
physicians in those days. A doctor was 
summoned from the stands. 

"Dead," the doctor said. 

The infield flag was run down to half 
mast. The track musicians solemnly play- 
ed the death march while the racing 
fans stood with bared heads, and the 
"mortal remains" of Phil Kelly were car- 
ried to the lawn and covered with paper 
to await the arrival of the meat wagon 
from New Orleans. 

Without thinking, they had laid Kelly 
down near a lawn sprinkler which some- 
how got turned on. No one seemed to 
notice that the recumbent Kelly was get- 
ting a shower until the paper was sudden- 
ly shoved out of the way and Phil came 
out sputtering, with only a headache to 
remind him of his brush with death. 

Harry Harris was once believed to be 
America's best steeplechase rider. One 
day he was schooling a green jumper over 
the course in the infield at Belmont Park 
when the horse refused to rise to the 
brush. As he swerved, he crashed into the 
wooden "wing," splintering it. One of the 
broken boards pierced Harris' body, kill- 
ing him instantly. 

His tragic death gave impetus to a 
reform which has undoubtedly saved 
many lives, both horses and riders. At 
many of the ovals featuring steeplechase 
riding now, the wings, panels, and posts 
of the jumps are made of a substance 
called homasote. These obstacles look 

exactly like their wooden forerunners, 
but when hit, they yield readily, without 
injury to horse or rider. 

Fred A. Smith will be remembered by 
most of us as a top-notch flat rider. He 
started his career at Alamo Downs in 
Texas, then went on to make his courage 
and stretch gameness a byWord at the 
New England tracks and around the 
Chicago wheel. 

A gutty rider, whether veteran or ap- 
prentice, fired by the desire to win, will 
drive his mount through a knot-hole if 
that's the only way through a massed 
field of horses. Sometimes they don't 
make it. Fred Smith's luck at going 
through knot-holes ran out at Holly- 
wood Park. He was crushed under dozens 
of flying hooves. 

Many track followers have often won- 
dered if Earl Dew had a premonition 
about going to Aqua Caliente on February 
2, 1941. Certainly he wasn't keen about 
going, but it may have been his natural 
modesty that made him reluctant. 

For those who don't remember, Earl 
Dew won the American Jockey Cham- 
pionship in his apprentice year of 1940. 
He was a gentlemanly, teen age lad with 
a nice smile, and was especially popular 
with the west coast fans. They took 
him completely to their hearts, and root- 
ed for him whole heartedly against his 
rival for jockey honors, Walter Lee 
Taylor, an eastern saddlesmith. 

As the year drew to a close, and the 
issue was stalemated. Earl decided to go 
down to Caliente, which runs on Sunday, 
in the hope of annexing the race which 
would tip the balance his way. He won it. 

The Caliente management, wishing to 
honor Earl and show their appreciation 
for the limelight he had brought to their 
race course, invited him to be their guest 
of honor on February 2, 1941 at which 
time he would be presented with a gold 
watch amidst all due pomp and ceremony. 

Incidentally, Earl Dew rode his first 
winner at Caliente, which would seem to 
suggest that he'd want to return for this 
ceremony. However, the fact remains 
that he didn't want to go. He had com- 
mittments at Santa Anita Saturday after- 
noon, and to fill the Caliente engagement 
meant he'd have to fly down below the 

He finally agreed to go if he could get 
an airline reservation. He seemed relieved 
when told all the seats had been sold. 

"That settles that," he said. 

However, the "man on the pale horse" 
wasn't letting him off that easy. In less 
than an hour the airline office called back 
to inform him there had just been a 
cancellation, and that they would hold 
the seat for him. 

He went to Caliente expecting to just 
appear for the presentation ceremony, but 
somebody thought it would be a nice 
gesture to the many fans who had gather- 
ed tp see him, if he rode one token race. 

"All right," he said. 

His mount was a five-year-old mare, 

Bosca. The field had just rounded the 
turn into the stretch when Bosca went 
crashing into the track. Draco and Whiz 
Shot were pressing too close to avoid pil- 
ing up on top of the downed horse and 

Bosca's neck was broken. Earl, semi- 
conscious, was taken to the jockey room 
for first aid. Then, after a bit of rest, 
he decided to take a walk in the grounds, 
still shaken but apparently all right other- 
wise. Soon after, he collapsed, and was 
rushed by ambulance to a San Diego 
hospital some 25 miles away. 

He was pronounced dead on arrival. 
His skull had been fractured in the pile- 

GEORGIE WOOLF was known as 
the "iceman" because of his un- 
usually cold, unruffled craftsmanship 
under pressure. He is rated as one of 
the truly great jockeys of all time. 

He was another one who fought a 
constant battle with the calories in order 
to "make weight." Also, he was a diabetic 
and had to take insulin shots frequently. 
Some think insulin shock may have con- 
tributed to his tragic death at Santa 

I was standing at the rail near the 
finish wire that day, and here's the way 
it looked to me. 

George had only one mount that after- 
noon. He probably wasn't feeling very 
well, for I learned afterwards that he 
hadn't wanted to ride, but that he'd taken 
the boot up on Please Me as a favor to 
the owner, who felt the horse could win 
with George in the pilot house. Whatever 
the circumstances, Georgie was in the 
boot as the horses charged into the Club- 
house turn. 

Please Me seemed to stumble, but 
hardly enough to unseat an accomplished 
reinsman like Georgie. The horse didn't 
go down, but George dived into the track. 
As the field swept on, he lay there motion- 
less. I think all of us expected him to 
get up and dust himself off. 

It seemed like only seconds till the 
ambulance drove out onto the track and 
took the small form away. Still, I'm sure 
most of us fully expected that a report 
would soon be given over the public ad- 
dress system that George was all right, 
just shaken up badly, or maybe a broken 
arm or collar bone at worst. 

When word was finally passed that he 
had died shortly after arriving at the 
track hospital, it was a profound shock. 

Today there is a statue of George 
Woolf overlooking the paddock at Santa 
Anita. It was here that he rode the im- 
mortal Seabiscuit, the only champion to 
make a come-back after being retired be- 
cause of injuries. 

Jockeys have a hazardous profession 
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(Continued from page 27) 

them in the mess tent. It seemed more 
like a field hospital than a battalion aid 
station. We tried to be everywhere at 
once, seeking those injured most seriously. 
Most of Able Company had been wiped 
out, but we had repulsed the first attack. 
Then there was another, stronger than 
the first, and it became hand-to-hand 
lighting. Suddenly our artillery support 
ceased just as it was most urgently need- 
ed. Then I heard the mortar officer shout 
"fire," and the mortars began laying it 
in, keeping it up until dawn. 

AS I WAS moving among the wound- 
ed outside, an infantry officer ordered 
me to get a rifle and get up on the line. 
I took an M-l from one of the dead 
and started for the line. I had no rifle 
training except what I had learned from 
GI friends. I shot hell out of the enemy 
line until the error was discovered by 
Doctor Navarre, who ordered me back to 
the field hospital. 

It is difficult to single out one man's 
deeds over another, but the courage of 
our commanding officer Lieutenant 
Colonel Don Faith, inspired us all to 
exceed our capabilities. (Editor's Note: 
Lieutenant Colonel Faith received the 
Congressional Medal of Honor, posthu- 
mously, for his actions at the Changjin 

I will not forget the Colonel's order 
for retreat. It was a traeic moment for 
everyone, especially the GIs. It is a grave 
moment when a good soldier's best action 
is to retreat. 

The Chinese had encircled our position 
and we were cut off from supplies. Am- 
munition and medical supplies were run- 
ning short. We had no alternative. 

Retreat, we knew, was inevitable, but 
when it was discovered how securely we 
were blocked from the rest of the task 
force, it was postponed. Our first day of 
defense was successful, no line completely 
broken. We dug in deeper and prepared 
for the coming night. We spent the day 
dressing GI and ROK wounded and now 
and then a Chinese casualty. The Chinese 
seemed so young. I asked one in Chinese 
how many battalions attacked us. 

"Three regiments," he answered. 

Three regiments attacking one battal- 
ion ! This meant we could expect a repeat 
of last night's battle. To fight seemed 
futile against such odds, especially against 
an enemy heavily equipped with tanks, 
automatic weapons, 76mm. howitzers and 
multiple rocket launchers. The Chinese 
displayed skill and high morale. 

Tending the wounded seemed hopeless, 
for there was much re-wounding of the 
wounded. Whether deliberate or accident- 
al, the Reds had the battalion aid station 
zeroed in. Explosions knocked us flat 
many times. 


About 2200 that night sporadic firing 
started and in a matter of minutes it was 
a full scale fight. The situation was 
different now, as several sections of the 
line were pierced. We sent up everyone 
who could walk and shoot to fill the 

By dawn our eastern flank was in great 
danger. Baker Company was sent to rein- 
force the danger area. In the meantime 
our manpower had declined to an im- 
possible point and it was obvious that 
we would not be able to hold the area 
another night. The word was passed that 
we were moving out, with or without 
air support. 

SNOW WAS falling and an icy north 
wind rolled off the Reservoir. Each 
new advance of the enemy was as furious 
as the first. It was a horrible situation, 
and without air support it would be 
worse. Then, as despondency was settling 
in, the sky parted and the sun broke 
through, followed by Navy Hell Cats 
unleashing their load on the enemy. 

We moved rapidly out on the line to 
find as many wounded as we could be- 
fore heading south. The horror and 
viciousness of the battle was evident 
when we dismantled the tents to move the 
wounded. There were men without arms, 
men without legs, some with only half 
their heads. Tenderly we began moving 
the wounded. The Reds foresaw our plan 
and began concentrating their fire on us, 
trying to block our retreat. I became an 
infantry man with my M-l. 

There was no time for the dead. Some 
of the men wept with pain as they walk- 
ed, others fell grotesquely along the 


LOS ANGELES police were not 
surprised to get a call from a 
panicky woman informing them that 
there was a "mad-dog killer" on the 
loose in the suburbs of L.A. 

They were surprised, however, to 
find that the "killer" was a dog. A 
healthy, happy mongrel was trotting 
down the street with a deadly Ger- 
man Lucger clamped firmly between 
his teeth. 

A quick thinking, officer rushed 
into a nearby butcher shop, grabbed 
a fist full of hamburger and offered 
to trade it for the gun. The canine 
desperado laid his weapon down 
carefully, wagged his tail, took the 
offered meat and galloped down an 

The owner of the gun was never 
identified. The dog was never seen 

The butcher was paid and the case 
was closed. 


frozen roadside, completely resigned to 
death. We collected casualties as we mov- 
ed down the road, begging them to live, 
promising them warm food, sleep and 
safety, if they would only go on. 

It was nearly noon when we finally 
reached the position supposedly held by 
the Third Battalion. But before us lay a 
deserted valley, covered with dead — ours 
and theirs. The rail bed along the margin 
of the Reservoir formed an embankment. 
Obviously, this was the Third's last stand. 

Gradually the events of the last two 
days took shape. Numerous Chinese 
forces had marched in separate columns 
down the peninsula, the first element en- 
countering us, the rest hitting the rear 
of the task force. Now we knew why 
the artillery had been silenced. Pieces 
of artillery had been completely destroyed. 
You couldn't move five feet without 
stumbling over enemy dead. 

It was time to prepare for another 
night's stand. We knew they would apply 
pressure in an effort to decimate the re- 
mainder of the task force. We were out 
of ammunition and food. At 1300 an air 
drop was made. The yellow, blue, red and 
white parachutes seemed like an answer 
to our prayers. 

We set up a new Battalion aid station 
in the ditch of the railroad. Colonel Faith 
came by to speak to the wounded. 

"Doctor Lee, you look tired," he said. 

"No, sir. I'm as fresh as you are." 

The Colonel smiled, and I knew then 
I would never let down a man as good 
as this. 

Night fell and the battle began im- 
mediately. It was as it had been the night 
before. Even with the aid station under 
fire, Doctor Navarre and his men con- 
tinued working. 

On the morning of the thirtieth we 
were relieved by air support. There had 
been no warm food for three days, only 
frozen C-rations. We had no fuel or 
water. We ate snow. 

Frost bite began to take its toll but 
we were too short of manpower to let 
frost bite become a reason for taking 
a man off his post. And then it was 
night again. 

Fighting was frenzied but Colonel Faith 
seemed confident that we could hold, and 
that was enough for the rest of us. Mor- 
tars began to fall haphazardly over the 
area, many of them dropping in on the 
aid station. 

A captain handled the heavy mortars. 
About 0200 on the first of December 
our mortars were silenced. I could hear 
crying, a few minutes later the captain's 
voice was heard again, and the remaining 
mortars opened up. About 0400 the enemy 
finally infiltrated and a quickly organized 
team of ROKs and GIs was sent to 
wipe them out. 

Little Chisai, who had called me the 
night of the first attack, was injured in 
the thigh frying to bring in wounded. By 
0500 out lit* had weakened to a point 
of near defeat An enemy shell exploded 

outside the main aid station. We hurried 
outside to find the wounded there had 
been killed. At daybreak air support 
came again. I walked out and watched 
the fighting. There were only about two 
companies left, and they were more dead 
than alive. 

Colonel Faith ordered us to -make ready 
to move out. We were going to try to 
make it to the Marines in Hagaru-H. All 
our trucks and jeeps were lined up along 
the roadside. In half an hour we had 
every patient loaded and we began to 

It was a slow tedious job, for the en- 
emy was endeavoring to zero us in. Some 
fanatics appeared in front of the convoy 
but our air support spotted them and 
burned them out with napalm. They had 
been so close that some of the napalm 
hit the convoy, burning a close friend 
of mine who was a lieutenant in the 
ammunition company. 

Behind us the Chinese were busily 
grabbing gear we had abandoned. Ahead 
the road weaved crazily along the frozen 
Reservoir. Hundreds of the enemy had 
burrowed into the mountain on our left, 
waiting for us, only to be killed by our 
air support 

At 1300 we reached a muddy area 
surrounded on three sides by high hills. 
Here we had to cross a river where a 
bridge had once stood. The crossing was 
so difficult that even the 6-by-6 trucks got 
stuck. Our convoy was stretched and 
stalled and the enemy found it easy to 
pick off the walking. The medics, who 
were left, followed behind the convoy, 
loading the wounded. At the river cross- 
ing we ran out of space to load the 
wounded and we began stacking them 
on top of each other. 

By dusk only two thirds of the convoy 
had been able to cross the river and our 
air support was forced to leave. Only 
a handful of foot soldiers remained, and 
then I learned that Doctor Navarre had 
been wounded. I was shocked, but I could 
not cry. I had no more strength left. 

As soon as the air support left, the 
enemy reoccupied their bunkers. In a 
bunker ahead of us, ten Chinese were 
stopping the convoy. A group of sur- 
vivors, ROKs and GIs, attacked the 
bunker, but were killed. Another group 
dispatched by Colonel Faith was stopped 
by enemy fire. Then a short* man started 
climbing the hill behind the bunker. Wc 
opened up full blast to distract the enemy, 
praying to God that he would make it 
At the top he inserted his M-l into the 
bunker and let loose, killing everyone in 
the bunker. I learned later that he was 
an ROK litter man named Chae. The con- 
voy began to move again. 

A full moon, brighter by the reflection 
of snow, turned night into day. I talked 
with Doctor Navarre, who was riding in 
one of the ambulances. Although wounded 
himself, he was caring for the others. 
I had just left him when they came at 
us with their bugles, cymbals and drums. 

They let loose with mortars, machine- 
guns, burpguns and hand grenades. For a 
moment the. fighting was fierce, and then 
it was over. One by one those who had 
weapons were killed, including Colonel 
Faith, and then there was complete si- 

I didn't know what to do. I didn't 
know where I was, but I knew that soon 
the enemy would be upon me. I started 
to creep towards the Reservoir heading in 
the direction of the North Star. After 
going about 500 yards I seemed to be 
safe from enemy fire. I was thirsty and 
I tried eating snow but it wouldn't quench 
my thirst I couldn't crawl anymore. I 
was too exhausted. I stood up and began 
walking. I saw red tracers in the far 
south and I knew I was going the wrong 
way, for red tracers meant GIs. I began 
to have hullucinations, now and then 
the red tracers would appear before me 
and I would move on. 

Then someone shook my shoulder. 
"Hey, wake up 1" I opened my eyes and 
there were three GIs. One helped me up. 

"Do you know where the Marines 
are?" one of them asked. 

"Yes, I think it is that way." 

They helped me along, and there were 

times when I fell asleep. And then we 
were challenged. 

"Haiti" said a voice. "Pass word!" 

"We don't know what the pass word is, 
we haven't heard for three days," I re- 

"Say some English," he ordered. 

One of the soldiers talked with him 
and we were passed. We were led to a 
small town which I learned later was 
Hagaru-ri. I also learned that Doctor 
Navarre and a few others had escaped, 
although I never saw them again. 

I was lying in bed when a Navy corps- 
man said, "It is good to have you with 
us, doctor. Would you be interested in 
working with the Marines?" 

I was, and on the second of December I 
joined the Easy Medical Company of the 
First Marine Division. Someday in the 
future, if I live that long, I will be going 
to the United States with a medical 
scholarship. Whatever happens to me, I 
am satisfied that my countrymen who 
fought with the GIs were equal to the 
situation. Perhaps, in time, the animosity 
will be gone, and peace will come to my 

That is what I pray for. 

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GOOD sportsmanship is generally 
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contests every now and then. But 
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(Continued from page 36) 

closer. I saw a rowboat lowered. Five 
men, four rowing, one peering in our 
direction, headed towards us. 

Jack stared as the boat approached. 
"My God t" he exclaimed. "They do look 
as though they might be pirates." 

Then I got an idea. "Jack," I said, 
"we've got one small chance of getting 
out of this. Climb under the engine 
hatch and squeeze yourself into one of 
those dark corners. Stay there no matter 
what happens to any of us." 

"What for?" Jack started to ask as I 
shoved him towards the hatch. 

"Hell you can't work on the engine 
if you're caught," I whispered urgently. 

We had been milling around in the 
small space near the wheel, so there was 
a good chance that the approaching visi- 
tors might not have counted us. 

Finally the creaking rowboat drew up. 
The sailors, if that's what they could 
be called, were fierce looking Orientals. 
Each carried a naked knife tucked into 
a ragged pants waist. The leader carried 
a pistol, the only modern weapon in 

After securing the two boats together 
all five men clambered aboard. They gave 
me a short glance, spoke a phrase to 
Ging, and stared quietly at the young 
girl who stood straight and looked over 
their heads to the grey horizon. 

Ging said we'd have to go back to 
the visitors' ship. Jack, meanwhile, had 
gone undetected. One man was left aboard 
to guard our boat. The rest of us were 
taken to the big junk. 

The crew was waiting for us. 

Midships, a giant of a man stood 
watching as we climbed aboard. He was 
well over six and a half feet tall and 
was built like a monster genie out of 
an Asiatic fairy tale. 

He immediately ordered the girl taken 
to his cabin. He spoke to the first mate 
and then followed the girl. 

In a few minutes the giant captain re- 
turned, but not the girl. The captain 
was breathing a little hard, and he wiped 
away a thin trickle of blood that thread- 
ed down his scratched cheek. 

Sensing what must have happened to 
his daughter, the Chinese father leaped 
at the captain. The captain let the father 
strike him a feeble blow, then with ter- 
rible calm he grabbed the father with 
one hand and, taking a huge old boarding 
cutlass from his belt, plunged it into the 
wriggling father's belly. The father, re- 
leased from the giant's grip fell to the 

Two of the crew picked up the bleed- 
ing man and, at a signal from the cap- 
tain, tossed him into the sea. 

Ging was tied securely and led below 


It was my turn. "American," I said 
pointing at myself. I might as well have 
said "Chinese" for the captain paid no 
heed. He spoke to the mate again. In 
a moment my hands were tied behind me. 

It was then that the first mate shoved 
me towards the open space on deck. 
Before recovering from the shove I felt 
the bite of a whip. The tension was 
broken. The first few cracks stung me 
but didn't hurt too much. But as the 
beating continued I shivered and shook 
after each stroke. I collapsed and was 
dragged to my feet. 

All this time the captain watched with- 
out speaking. 

Two men dragged me to the side of 
the junk. I hadn't noticed the ten-foot 
plank which had been lowered in place at 
the starboard side. Then I understood. I 
was going to walk the plank. 

I heard the captain speak a single 
word. It sounded like "American," but 
I wasn't sure for a blindfold was thrown 


"Evil spirits hell! This man 
needs a shot of penicillin!" 

roughly over my eyes and momentarily 
it covered my ears. 

As I stood swaying on that lonely 
board, I sensed the cold sea beneath me. 

The crew began to laugh, short stac- 
cato sounds. 

They thought I was afraid when I 
reached the end of the plank, for I 
wouldn't go off. I was, but also I was 
praying for time. Then I felt a sharp 
blade pierce my back in a shallow cut 
shoving me over. 

The shock of the icy water knocked 
me out. A feeling of blackness came over 
me and all pain ceased. 

Jack had waited till the rowboat had 
carried us to the big junk. Then he 
quickly whacked the guard over the head 
with a large crescent wrench and propped 
him up so that from the junk it looked 
like the guard was sitting down. 

Taking a last chance at finding the 
trouble with the engines, Jack checked 

the fuel line and carburetors again. At 
the connection to the fuel tank the line 
was blocked with dirt. He cleaned it 
quickly. With gasoline feeding in again, 
the engines came to life and the guard 
went overboard assisted by a boost from 

Jack watched as I was shoved off the 
plank. That was all he could do. If he 
had started for me when I hit the water, 
he would have aroused suspicion. As far 
as the pirates were concerned, their guard 
was still in control of our boat. 

Meanwhile I swallowed some ocean, 
and the blindfold fell away from me. 
Coming up, I looked toward the pirate 
ship. Somebody fired a couple of shots, 
but that was all. The huge captain stop- 
ped whoever had fired the shots. Am- 
munition was too precious to waste shoot- 
ing at someone who was practically dead. 

The rags that held my wrists began 
to loosen as I thrashed my body around 
trying to free my arms. 

Straining my arms together and wish- 
ing that my hands were covered with 
grease, I twisted my forearms into the 
shape of a cross and pulled with all my 
might. The soaked rags gave way and 
my arms were free. 

All the time I'd been struggling, some- 
thing strange was going on aboard the 
pirate junk. I saw figures scurrying 
around on deck, climbing the masts, ad- 
justing the ponderous sail. 

Were they coming after me? How 
could they have seen me slip my arms 
free? I thought of all I'd been through. 
Now, they'd leisurely move after me, 
perhaps run the bow right over me. Cat 
and mouse played to slow oriental time 
by the light of the moon. 

I tried to scream for Jack to come 
in. Then I saw he was moving toward 
me. However, the junk was moving away. 
Their preparations, I finally saw, were 
taking them away from me. 

At last I saw the reason. Another junk 
was heading in our direction. It came 
close enough for me to see its sails and 
insignia. Usually the pirates stuck a small 
crescent at the top of their mast as they 
closed in for a kill. 

There was no crescent on the onrush- 
ing sloop. To my surprise, I saw the 
Union Jack whipping from top mast. 
Furthermore it was charging in faster 
than sails could move it. I knew the 
strange craft had an auxiliary motor 
when I saw the way the stern rode deep 
in the water. Nautically it was an un- 
graceful, even disgraceful sight, but I 
couldn't have been happier if it had been 
Eisenhower's Presidential Yacht out of 
moth balls. 

When Jack had nearly reached me, I 
saw a dark fin cut the surface of the 
water near me. It was a shark's fin, I 
knew. The best thing I could do, I once 
had heard, was to try to keep relaxed. It 
I started churning the water, the shark 
would move in for battle. One swift pass 
of its flashing teeth could rip open a man. 

I saw the fin go under water and re- 
appear ten yards on the other side of me. 
Then I saw a dark form go past me 
faster than my eye could follow. That 
shark must have had more important 
things to do. He didn't come back. 

Jack was close enough for me to yell 
to him. 

"Did you see him?" I gasped. 

"Sure," said Jack. "You did the right 
thing for once. Stay there so I can 
come up to you." 

"Stay where you are/' I yelled. "1*11 
come up to you." 

Jack stopped our boat and waited. 

He tossed me a rope and helped me 
climb up. I was surprised that I had 
the strength to swing my leg over the 

"Some buddy," I said. "Were you go- 
ing to let me drown before coming over?" 

"If I'd come as soon as you were over- 
board, those pirates would have fixed us 
both," he said. 

"What's happening over there?" I ask- 
ed him, looking toward the pirates. 

The smaller craft, flying the British 
flag, had moved into position broadside 
to the pirates. We both saw what looked 
like a 40mm cannon leveled for action. 

They fired one shot across the pirates' 
bow and one shot through the sail, just 
to show they were on target. 

The pirates knew they were outclassed 
and outgunned. A white flag replaced the 
crescent almost before the sound of the 
second shot stopped echoing. 

Jack and I eased closer to the two 
ships to watch. We were both anxious 
about the Chinese girl and Ging. The girl 
had been destined for a horrible future. 
If and when the captain tired of her, 
he would turn her over to the crew. 

I heard the captain of the pirate ship 
yelling something across the water in 

"We have friends of the British on 
board. If you promise to let all my men 
and me go free, we will free the man 
and woman. Otherwise they die." 

For a few minutes no reply came from 
the British ship. Then one of the men 
replied for his captain in the same dialect. 

"Yes, turn over these people and you 
can sail away. If there are any tricks, 
we can sink you in 30 seconds." 

In a few minutes two figures climbed 
into a small rowboat. 

After it was lowered from the pirate 
ship Jack and I sighed in relief. 

"There's Ging and the girl," he said. 

We edged up to the rowboat and helped 
the newly- freed pair climb aboard. The 
girl glanced at us, tears in her eyes, 
and said nothing. I was the most beaten 
looking and bedraggled, but she had suf- 
fered more than I. Her silk dress was 
dirty. Around the arm openings the torn 
silk fell away and showed the curve of 
her small breasts. 

Ging had survived the ordeal untouch- 
ed. Apparently the pirates had been sav- 
ing him for the last, because he had not 

been worked on at all by them. 

We delivered the girl to the British 
and told them the story — about her 
father's death and my capture. We asked 
an officer to carry the girl to Hong Kong, 
where she would be met by friends. 

We arranged to follow the British 
j unk back to Hong Kong under our 
own power. 

A couple of weeks later, in Hong 
Kong I read a news story about a British 
naval gun crew aboard a junk which car- 
ried a hidden cannon. Three pirate ships 
had approached for an easy kill. All 
three had been sunk. 

A few survivors had been picked up. 
One was mentioned in particular because 

of his great height and strength. His 
strength did him no good when he was 
sentenced to death by hanging as was the 
sentence for all the captured pirates. 

At the Hong Kong hospital I told the 
doctor who treated my back about my 
adventure with the pirates. I even showed 
him the newspaper. 

"Pirates?" he hedged. "Yes I've heard 
there are a few around. But this walking 
the plank business, it sounds a little 
strong. I'd go easy about talking about 
it. That sort of thing just isn't done you 

My nightmares keep reminding me it 
was done. 




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(Continued from page 45) 

as we walked into the shadow of the 
twisted and mud encrusted derrick. We 
could see Pinky hammering at some 
massy iron valves. The smell of gas was 
quite strong, still, and all about could 
be heard the hiss of escaping gas. The 
smell grew increasingly more potent as 
we stood about 

"They are taking the kelly loose, so 
they can choke the flow of gas if it 
starts again," said Lee. 

"Isn't there still some pressure?" I ask- 
ed, nervously eyeing the bubbles coming 
from the murky waters under the work- 
ing men. 

"Yes, ever since it stopped of its own 
accord, they've been preparing for an- 
other blow that they expect at any time." 
Pointing, he said, "Look." 

Glancing at a red needle gauge, I saw 
it quivering at 5600 pounds to a square 
inch. Even as I watched, it crept up 
another hundred pounds. 

Until that time I had not noticed the 
other people standing around watching 
the work progressing. When my gaze 
strayed to the several well dressed men 
standing in a corner of the derrick, I 
only then noticed that they obviously had 
taken notice of Lee and myself. For the 
first time, it occurred to me that perhaps 
we were not welcome, but my thoughts 
were interrupted. 

The hissing noise took on a deep, sinis- 
ter tempo and the men working beneath 
the floor scrambled to the surface, shout- 
ing. Pinky yelled, "Get backl Get backl 
She's fixing to blow again 1" 

Lee grabbed my arm and we ran with 
the crowd, making for the other barge 
and safety. Behind us, as we stumbled 
over the jumble of equipment and scorch- 
ed iron, the hissing rapidly became a roar. 
All the force of hell seemed to turn loose 
out of that hole. 


Great chunks of mud and water hurtled 
skyward, followed by the worst blasting 
of sand and muck imaginable. Even as 
we charged down the ladder it began to 
rain mud and water. 

Gathering under a little tin shed far 
back on the barge, we looked on at the 
mighty spectacle, awed. None would have 
spoken, even if our voices could have 
carried over the pounding tremor of the 
billowing mud. Higher and higher went 
the sizzling muck, finally shrieking out 
of the top of the derrick 80 feet over 
our heads. 

Looking about us, I noticed that Pinky 
and his crew had not followed any 
further than the first barge, and even 
now as the force of the blast had seem- 
ingly reached its peak, they advanced on 
the hole. 

Gathering all the power of my lungs, I 
shouted into Lee's ear, "What do they 
think they can do?" 

"They're going to choke it down and 
bring it under control," he shouted back. 

After half an hour of the muddy rain, 
the wind shifted to an onshore breeze 
and the well dressed men in the party 
returned to the hole. 

Able to hear better, I asked Lee, "God, 
we barely made it, didn't we?" 

Laughing, he said, "Those fellows 
weren't running from the danger, they 
were just waiting for the mud to stop 

Lee left his camera because of the 
danger of a bulb breaking and starting 
another fire, and we ventured out. Pinky 
and his crew were engaged in lowering a 
massive steel valve over the spewing maw. 
They worked close upon the thick, solid 
shaft of black horror coming out of the 
hole and two hours of brutal work was 
necessary in this preliminary measure. 
Time after time they would attempt to 
fasten it and each time it would catch 
some stray fragment escaping from the 
hole and leap upward with a bound and 
come crashing down on the steel floor. 
A thin cable kept it from bounding back 
into the water, but with each leap it 
would threaten to crush the agile workers. 

Finally they succeeded in getting the 
threads meshed and with jubilation start- 
ed unfastening the thick blowout prevent- 
er that had cut out. With wrenches that 
a lesser man would have been glad merely 
to be able to lift, they jerked free the nuts 
holding the valve. 

Meanwhile the well dressed boys had 
been eyeing us with something less than 
love, and now one of them walked over 
and said, "Just who are you two nosy 
b s, anyway?" 

Our sheepish expression belied our 
arguments, and with ears stinging from 
crude words, we silently picked our way 
back over the littered barge to the plane. 

"Maybe it's just as well," reflected Lee. 
"They have it to the place where they 
can bring in a well now." 

By way of explanation he launched into 
an ill-timed discourse. "All they have to 
do now is remove the Hydril, back out the 
Kelly, shut the QRC . . -" 
"Lee, how long will it take to finish it 
and have a producer?" 

'* About three weeks with no more bad 

He lowered his bulk onto a pontoon of 
the bobbing plane and turned, his eyes 
reflective. He raised his sight to the top 
of the dirty plume still jetting out of 
the hole. 

"You know, I think if Satan himself 
would rear his head from that hole and 
see Pinky and < that bunch, he'd turn tail 
and go back, hoping that all earth people 
aren't so tough." Lee chuckled. "He'd be 
afraid some of them might come his way 
sometime, and he'd be scared they'd put 
out his hell fires." 




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